


Soul Scars

by ShayaLonnie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemy Soulmates, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stalking, mostly canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:59:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 61,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/pseuds/ShayaLonnie
Summary: "Scars can come in handy." — Magic gives the gift of a soulmate. Separated by war, alliances, beliefs, and blood, but connected by skin. What if you shared the scars of the person that magic has given you? What if you really, really wished that you didn't?





	1. Hidden

**Author's Note:**

> I came across a post on tumblr with the premise: what if, when you drew something on your skin, it appeared on your soulmates skin wherever they were? I loved the idea and I took it a step further, wondering how scars would be involved. Each chapter will feature a new pairing, all that exist in the same universe. The chapters jump through time, so you'll see the progression of some pairings in the chapters featuring others. Also, this universe is a mostly canon universe, so please keep that in mind when people die and your hearts break. And break they will. I'm a horrible, evil person.
> 
> It is complete at 21 chapters, and I will be uploading as I edit them. 
> 
> Beta Love: LadyParongsny, ambriabeal, azuthlu, Nykizta

**November 1981**

Minerva stared at the curiously shaped cut on the boy's forehead. "Is that where—?"

"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Albus?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy."

And even magic had limitations.

* * *

Hyperion Greengrass stepped out of the fireplace in the drawing room of his ancestral manor outside of Sussex. It had not been a good few days, as much as the rest of the Wizarding world was celebrating in the streets. Hyperion had spent that time locked in a small interrogation room being questioned by Aurors about his association with people like Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, and the Lestrange brothers.

"Clients," he'd told them all. It had been the truth regardless of whether or not he was keeping his dark little secret about how he'd almost—very nearly—joined their little club; worshippers of You-Know-Who. He'd not been a blood supremacy fanatic like his father had been, but it made sense to be on the winning side of a war despite one's personal thoughts on the matter, didn't it? Thankfully, he'd been on the fence this time, which landed him in a room filled with Aurors instead of a cell in Azkaban filled with dementors.

"Where have you been?!"

Hyperion turned and had the breath knocked out of him when his young wife jumped into his arms, crushing herself against his chest. He sighed and breathed in her sweet scent, holding her close. "I'm so sorry, love. The Ministry had—"

"You-Know-Who is gone, I know, I read the  _Prophet_! I thought they'd taken you to Azkaban!" Laurel yelled at him, her eyes red and puffy from days of crying, terrified that her husband had been arrested and thrown in Azkaban with the Death Eaters. "We have a problem."

He frowned and pressed his palms against his eyes, rubbing hard enough to see spots. "A problem worse than being suspected of associating with known Death Eaters?" he asked, his voice heavy with stress and the missing hours of sleep. "If they call me back in, I'll follow Malfoy's lead and say that I was Imperiused. It's worked quite well for the man and his thugs."

Laurel shook her head. "It's Daphne."

Hyperion looked up, his attention officially caught. "What's wrong with her? What happened? Did someone—?"

Laurel took his hand and dragged him up the stairs to their daughter's room where she was peacefully sleeping. There, in the bed was their little witch. Alabaster skin and eyes as blue as the sea with long, dark lashes that didn't quite match the light, golden colour of her hair. Hiding beneath a thick, blond curl, Hyperion saw it.

"Oh no . . ."

"It won't come off permanently; I've tried every spell I know," Laurel whispered so as not to wake the baby, brushing her fingers over the lightning-shaped mark on her daughter's forehead. "The best I can do is charm it away, but if I end the spell, it comes  _right_ back. Whoever he or she is, it must have been Dark Magic. Do you think—"

Hyperion swallowed remembering the myriad of rumours already circulating in the Ministry that he'd been able to overhear during his temporary detainment. "I know who it is."

Laurel turned, eyes wide. "Y-You know? How? It sometimes takes years, if ever, for a witch or wizard to find their—"

"We have to hide her. No one can ever see that mark."

"Why?"

Hyperion touched the tip of his wand against his daughter's forehead, temporarily vanishing the scar. "Because that's what Dumbledore is doing with her soulmate."

* * *

**September 1991**

"Pardon us." Laurel rushed along the side of the Hogwarts Express, stopping only to turn back when her eight-year-old daughter accidentally ran into a little red-headed girl. "I'm so terribly sorry." She smiled up at the girl's mother—a Weasley if she spotted the looks accurately. "We're a bit in a rush."

The woman only smiled. "I know the feeling, dear. I'm sending my sixth child away today; you'd think I'd be used to it by now."

Laurel almost cried. "My first girl is going. She's eleven."

"Oh dear, it gets easier, I promise you."

Twin red-headed boys approached the woman with bright grins on their faces. "Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train? You know that black-haired boy who was near us in the station? Know who he is?"

The ginger witch gave Laurel a look of apology for the rude interruption. She sighed irritably and turned to her twins, putting hands on her hips. "Who?"

"Harry Potter!"

Laurel gasped and felt her heart skip several beats. Panicked, she turned and saw Daphne, hand wrapped tightly around Hyperion's arm, staring at the Weasley family, blue eyes wide in shock and fear. Hyperion squeezed Daphne's hand, and Laurel watched as her daughter schooled her expression back to one of neutrality.

"Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please!" the little red-headed girl begged.

"You've already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"

"Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there—like lightning."

Laurel subtly shook her head when she saw Daphne instinctively reach up to touch the hidden scar on her own forehead, kept out of sight with the strongest Glamour Charms she and Hyperion could come up with, in addition to the thick fringe that Laurel was none too pleased with. She'd spent the last two weeks before the first of September teaching Daphne how to comb her hair just so, so that the scar was completely hidden even  _without_ a charm. Just in case, she'd been sent with a plethora of accessories to cover it up until Daphne was skilled enough to hide the mark on her own.

Gods, if it hadn't been Dark Magic, it would have been so much easier. Laurel had a brief moment of sympathy for the boy that bore the original, especially when the Weasley woman said, "Poor dear. No wonder he was alone; I wondered. He was ever so polite when he asked how to get onto the platform."

"Off we go," Laurel said, clearing her throat and tugging on Astoria's hand so they could join Hyperion in wishing Daphne safe travels.

* * *

**June 1995**

"What do you suppose is happening?" Pansy asked, clinging to Daphne's arm tightly as she stared at the large hedge maze in front of them. Viktor Krum and the French girl had both been retrieved, but Diggory and Potter were missing and had been for a while now. Dumbledore and Professor Moody were pacing around the hedge, and the other professors were gathered together and whispering in a group.

"I think something went wrong," Daphne whispered, a tense coil in her stomach twisting nervously. She let out a small sigh of relief when Theo took her hand and squeezed it in understanding. She turned and made eye contact with her best friend, the only other person besides her parents and sister who knew her secret.

"Potter probably ran off with the trophy," Draco mumbled bitterly, arms folded across his chest. He'd sat behind her for most of the Third Task, tapping his toe and shaking his leg; the movement was vibrating the seats. She was quickly losing her patience with him.

"If he doesn't shut it—" she began, but Theo's chuckle stopped her mid-threat.

He leant in close and whispered, "You'd think that  _he_ was Potter's soulmate."

Daphne blushed and shook her head, laughing softly under her breath.

"Umm . . . Daphne?" Theo quietly addressed her, making sure the rest of their Housemates were distracted by the commotion on the pitch. He gestured to her arm, and she stifled a gasp when she saw a long, thick scar appear on the flesh of her forearm. She tugged down the sleeve of her robes and turned her attention back to the hedge maze, blue eyes wide with fear as she joined the search for Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter from the stands.

* * *

**September 1995**

"Are you all right, Daph?" Astoria asked worriedly, staring at her sister from across the sofa in the common room.

Daphne had O.W.L.s to think about and prepare for, but she was clearly distracted, scratching obsessively at her hand which was now all red. "I'm fine," she muttered angrily, her pulse racing the same way it had been every night that week. The charms weren't working because the wound was being continually inflicted, reopened every few moments over and over and over again. It lasted hours and then, the following night, it would resume once more.

Astoria tried to take a peek at Daphne's hand. " _I must not tell lies_?"

Daphne shot a withering look at her sister. "Mind your business. Finish your essay."

* * *

**July 1996**

"It's not like they're soulmates, y'know," Ginny said bitterly as she stomped up the stairs of the Burrow, nearly running headlong into Harry and Ron. "Sorry."

"Fleur?" Harry asked.

Ginny nodded. "She's driving me mental!" she screamed before ducking into the room that she was sharing with Hermione. Harry caught a brief glimpse of his best friend looking perturbed at having her revising interrupted, and he tried to throw her a sympathetic smile before Ginny shut the door.

"Witches," Ron said incredulously, shaking his head.

Harry laughed. "What was that about soulmates?"

Ron blinked in confusion, caught off guard by the question. "What? Er . . . Oh . . . Sometimes I forget that . . . y'know . . . you were raised by Muggles. It's usually something that your family teaches you. A lot of the old pureblood families think it's pretty sacred, so it's not taught in school. Dad told me that some people tried to petition a class on traditions and such, but prats like Malfoy and his ilk threw a fit about it. So, every witch or wizard has a soulmate. You find 'em through scars and writing and other stuff."

Harry stared at his friend, confused. "What? What do you mean scars?"

Ron chuckled. "Well, you kind of . . . All right, so I don't know  _how_ magic makes it work, but when you've got a soulmate, let's say you draw something on your arm, right? It'll appear on theirs. Anything that happens to your skin, actually, like scars. Mum calls 'em soul scars. Only they vanish if they aren't yours after a while. Depends on what kind of mark it is, if magic is used, how fast it heals. I had one show up on my thumb last summer, but it vanished in few minutes. If the wound gets healed, it'll disappear, or you can do it yourself with a simple charm. Unless it's Dark Magic, of course."

Harry instinctively touched his forehead. "You mean . . ."

Ron frowned. "Wow. Didn't ever think about it. I guess whoever they are . . . Yeah, they'd have it."

Harry looked down, horrified. "You say if you write something, it'll show up?"

"Yeah, kinda like 'Mione's charmed Galleons. Put something on one and it shows up on the other. Fred and George are trying to do something like it with twin notebooks. Probably to try and cheat on exams," Ron said with a laugh. "They'd make a killing selling them to fifth and seventh years."

Minutes later, the boys were in Ron's room, rummaging through Harry's Hogwarts trunk for a quill and ink. Eventually, Harry grabbed the quill in hand and nervously wrote on the back of his left hand, just above the faint scar that read: I must not tell lies.

_Hello?_

They waited several minutes, but nothing happened.

"Try something else," Ron encouraged.

Harry grimaced and began writing once more.

_I'm sorry if you have to share my scars._

A few minutes later, Harry gasped when words appeared on his skin.

_I was sorry to hear about your godfather_.

* * *

**May 1998**

It was over.

It was over, and Harry was alive; as were most of his friends. They were mourning those that had died, but somehow, they'd won.  _He'd_ won. He watched as friends and family grieved over lost loved ones, but every so often, something would catch his eye: a witch or wizard looking lost and scared as they steadily examined a scar on their body from where a curse had struck them. No, not  _them_ , their  _soulmate_.

Soul scars.

His mouth fell open in shock. He hadn't even thought about the person who'd only written back on their hand from time to time over the last two years. While Hermione and Ron slept in the tent on the run, Harry would take time every few weeks to write  _Are you all right?_  on his skin, shocked with how relieved he was when they'd reply in the affirmative, usually adding in something encouraging like,  _Stay strong, Harry._

Despite their short-lived relationship, this person—his soulmate—hadn't been Ginny. He knew for certain because the same day that Dumbledore had died, a message appeared on his skin, asking if he was alive. Ginny had been right by his side in the hospital wing when the words showed up.

Harry watched closely as everyone in the Great Hall began treating the wounded and moving the dead. Feeling useless, he turned a corner once out of the Great Hall. He found a quill in an empty classroom off a west corridor on the way to Gryffindor Tower and quickly scribbled on his skin.

_Are you all right?_

He waited, holding his breath, for a response that came minutes later.

_You're alive!_

Harry smiled and then laughed, jubilant that whoever his soulmate was, they'd made it through this damned war. He let out a loud whoop in victory and then quickly scribbled on his arm since it had more room.

_It's over. Voldemort's dead. Where are you? I want to see you._

Their reply took much longer this time, and Harry bit his lip nervously while he waited. Maybe they didn't want him. They knew who he was, who couldn't with the famous scar they apparently shared. What if . . . what if it was too much? What if they didn't want anything romantic? Hermione had mentioned once that some soulmates were platonic friendships, non-romantic partnerships; sometimes they were even enemies. Soulmates only meant that magic had connected them. It didn't guarantee a happy ending.

Harry felt a cold chill run down his spine when his soulmate finally replied.

_I'm in the dungeons with the others._

"Slytherin," he whispered in shock, but still took off toward the dungeons as quick as his tired feet could carry him. The castle was damaged and would need repairs, but the foundation had held. At the end of a long corridor, he made it to the blank wall where he knew the entrance to the Slytherin common room to be.

"Pureblood," he said, growling when it didn't open. "Umm . . . Salazar. Voldemort. Dark Lord. I don't know!" he shouted desperately, angry at himself for standing idly by when the Slytherins had been taken away before the battle truly had begun. He should have said something. He should have stopped it. They didn't deserve to be tucked away, unable to even defend themselves.

"Please, just . . . just open," he whispered. " _Alohomora_."

A door formed and swung open revealing the gathered Slytherins on the other side, mostly young children or teenagers his own age, looking terrified. He frowned at the fear on their faces, spotting a stern-looking Pansy Parkinson near the back staunchly refusing to make eye contact with him.

"Where are you?" he called out.

They all looked around, confused.

That is until Theo Nott stepped forward, his hand around the small arm of a pale, blonde. "Let her through!" the pureblood snapped, giving the witch a bit of a shove through the quickly parting crowd.

She stumbled forward and righted herself immediately, pushing back long, golden hair behind her ears. Blue eyes met green, and Harry's mouth opened, shocked by the sight of her. He  _knew_ her. Greengrass. Daphne, he thought her name was. Not knowing what to say, both stood awkwardly, toeing the floor while the Slytherins looked on with interest.

"Is it over?" Pansy Parkinson asked testily. "Can we go now, or should we wait for Aurors to come arrest us?"

Harry blinked, turning his gaze away from Daphne for a moment. "Er . . . yes. You're free to go."

They filed out of the common room one by one, leaving Harry and Daphne standing face-to-face in the doorway. Eventually, Daphne cleared her throat. "You're not . . . you're not still dating Weasley, are you?" she asked, unable to hide the anxiety in her gaze and the distaste in her tone.

Harry barked a laugh. "No. No, Ginny and I split a year ago."

Daphne smirked, back to looking ever the confident pureblood princess that she was, as though she weren't standing in the opening of what had recently been her prison cell. Harry watched in awe as she ran a hand through her fringe, pushing the blond hair aside. In a small flutter of wandless magic, the matching lightning bolt appeared on her skin.

He swallowed hard at the sight of it and actually found himself grinning. "It looks better on you."

She smiled. "Oh, this old thing?" she said teasingly before shrugging her delicate shoulders. "I've had it since forever."


	2. Nonsense

**June 1981**

Narcissa gasped when she first saw it: the tiniest little mark on Draco's knee.

Had he been another six months older, she would have wondered if he'd fallen himself. As it was, the boy was barely walking on his own. No, she knew a soul scar when she saw one. As lovely as it was to see it, she vanished the mark away—and every one that followed—because children were clumsy and she wouldn't have her precious boy covered head to toe in marks, blemishing his perfect skin.

"Who do you think she is?" Narcissa asked Lucius one night in bed. Draco was squished between them because Narcissa's earliest recollections of her childhood were of house-elves tending to her, and she wanted Draco's first memories to be of her and Lucius.

Lucius grunted sleepily, exhausted from a meeting with the Dark Lord earlier that day that had not gone well for the other Death Eaters, particularly Severus, who hadn't looked well in over a year. When his wife nudged him in the ribs with a slender—but bony—finger, he groaned and rolled over. "How do you know it's a girl?" he asked her. "You know very well that a soulmate doesn't always mean romantic, no matter what some people like to claim. Besides, Draco could likely grow to have a preference for—"

She smiled softly at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement and possibility. "I just  _know_. I know, Lucius, and I can't wait to find out who she is."

He chuckled, adjusting the Draco between them so that he could wrap one arm around Narcissa's shoulders and tug her against his chest without crushing the boy. "You're already planning a wedding, aren't you, my love?"

Narcissa pinched his arm reproachfully for his teasing but said nothing else.

* * *

**June 1986**

"Hurry!" Draco yelled as his mother and the house-elves fussed around his bed. "Get rid of it!"

Narcissa quietly scolded Lucius for buying their son a broom so soon. He'd been a natural flyer, of course, but even the best Quidditch players in the world crashed from time to time. Thankfully, he'd suffered nothing more than a fractured wrist and a cut across his left cheek that dug awkwardly into his nose thanks to landing in a wood pile out by the stables.

"Does Young Master Draco needs more Pain Potion?" Dobby asked timidly, looking at the boy as though he were nervous about whether or not to let him stay in pain versus accidentally overdosing him.

Draco rolled his eyes and sneered, a look he'd picked up from his father that Narcissa was none too pleased about. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Of course it doesn't hurt anymore, but I want this  _thing_ on my face gone!"

"If I were ever questioned as to who your father is, Draco, I would show anyone this memory," Narcissa said, pressing her wand gently against his face to remove the painful looking blemish. "You're growing up to be quite vain, you know," she playfully teased her son, mussing his hair.

Draco huffed and ran his small fingers through his pale blond locks, pushing it back the other way. "I don't care about  _that_. Father says that every flyer has marks to prove how long he's been on a broom. But . . ." he hesitated.

Narcissa raised a slender brow. "But?" she prompted him.

He sighed. "What if  _she_ sees it? I don't know where she is and . . . It could be embarrassing for her if people are looking and she's got an ugly scar on her face all of a sudden. It would be my fault." He frowned, looking down at his hands. "I wouldn't want people to . . . to make fun of her."

Smiling proudly, Narcissa pressed her lips to his forehead until he groaned and begged her to stop.

* * *

**May 1992**

Draco  _hated_ having a soulmate.

He'd been taught from a very early age that soulmates were sacred. That a man was to treat his soulmate with the utmost respect at all times; the way his father treated his mother had been his shining example. Every injury, every mark, every accidental line on his body was magicked away as quickly as possible to prevent her any unnecessary embarrassment. Draco had known the spells before he even stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express. He'd even asked to be shown extra charms by Professor Snape, who had rolled his eyes dramatically before agreeing.

Draco went  _out of his way_  to make sure that his soulmate—whoever she was—never had to explain to a single person why she might have a mark on her face that looked like the aftermath of a Stinging Hex, or a scar on her knees from when he fell in the Forbidden Forest during detention. Draco was  _very_ adamant about keeping her as blemish free and perfect as utterly possible.

She, however, was not doing the same.

"Did you fall asleep in the fireplace, Draco?" Pansy had asked him, giggling under her breath.

"Shut up," he said with a scowl. "It's ink, and it's not even mine. Where's my wand? I had it right here!"

"Blaise took it when you weren't looking," Theo said. "What do you mean it's not yours?"

Draco rubbed his ink-stained fingers against his trousers angrily as though the action could charm it all away. "It's my . . . bloody soul scars! Whoever she is, she's purposely tormenting me!"

He didn't notice when Theo and Daphne shared a look, mostly because Pansy had burst into hysterical laughter. "And it won't just disappear?" she asked through her giggles. "I thought that ink messages faded away after a moment or two. Minutes at the most? You're only supposed to need to charm away the  _scars_."

Face turning red—as red as his complexion would allow—Draco stood up and held his hands out to Theo, silently demanding assistance from his friend. He glared at Pansy while he waited. "It's  _supposed_ to fade away. Unless she's using cursed ink! Why can't she just keep her hands clean? How hard would that be?!"

Theo smirked. "She might be using Everlasting Ink."

* * *

**September 1993**

"He's faking it."

Hermione looked up at Harry as he tried to console Hagrid.

"Madam Pomfrey can mend  _anything_. She regrew half my bones last year. Trust Malfoy to milk it for all it's worth," he insisted angrily.

She nodded, having to agree with her friend. Leave it to Malfoy to insult a creature he thought below him and end up injured for it. She'd seen the blood, of course, and knew he hadn't been faking as Harry so adamantly complained, but the Slytherin  _was_ using his injury as though it were a golden ticket opting him out of class work, not to mention the mass of attention he was practically sunbathing in.

Hermione couldn't help but wonder if she was being a bit unkind about it as well. She often injured herself, sometimes not even noticing it until days later, when there would be a bruise on her hip from accidentally walking into a table while reading a book. Merlin, even just that afternoon, she'd found a long scratch on her arm with no idea as to where it had come from. It had faded since then, thank goodness.

"School gov'nors have bin told, o' course," Hagrid sobbed and sniffled, taking another drink from his tankard. "They reckon I started too big. Shoulda left hippogriffs fer later . . . done flobberworms or summat. Jus' thought it'd make a good firs' lesson. 'S all my fault."

Enraged, Hermione shouted, "It's all  _Malfoy's_ fault, Hagrid!"

* * *

**June 1996**

Draco didn't tell a soul about the deep purple scar bisecting his sternum that appeared overnight. He woke early that morning, eager to make up for the day before when Potter and his merry band of misfits and Mudbloods attacked the Inquisitorial Squad and then fled Hogwarts. Draco had stepped into the shower and gasped when he looked down and saw the ugly blemish on his skin.

Charms, patience, and the passing of time hadn't helped it do more than fade slightly.

Dark Magic.

His soulmate had been  _cursed_.

He didn't have time to think about that now, though; certain that he'd never see the girl with ink-stained fingers that he'd been secretly imagining his entire life. No, now he was more concerned with his  _own_ life and when, exactly, it would end.

Soon, he suspected.

"Are you ready?" his mother asked from the doorway, the dark circles beneath her eyes were still there. He figured she would have charmed them away. Their presence either meant that she hadn't bothered, or that his father was having a rougher go of it in Azkaban than either of them had anticipated.

"I'll take care of you," he promised her. "I'll make the Dark Lord happy with us again, Mother."

* * *

Hermione sat at the kitchen table late that night. Her parents had insisted she rest, following Madam Pomfrey's instructions on taking care of herself once she'd been allowed to leave Hogwarts with her friends. Dolohov had done a number on her, that much was certain, but she couldn't bring herself to tell her parents what  _exactly_ had happened. She hated lying, but they couldn't understand. They couldn't understand that she'd gone with her friends to fight Death Eaters, to save Harry's godfather—lot of good  _that_ did—and ended up almost dying.

She'd almost  _died_.

It was a sobering thought.

She made up an illness that she told her parents about to explain the many potions she still had to take over the next several weeks and promised that it wasn't contagious. The pain was gone after the first night spent in her own room at home, but the nightmares and stress kept her from sleeping peacefully.

Smiling sadly into her cup of hot chocolate, she wondered—hoped—that someone was around to make one for Harry. Lost in her thoughts about how to help her friend through his grief, she didn't notice the black mark on her arm until it began fading away.

But she  _did_ see it.

"No!" she screamed, her mug falling to the floor in the process as she jumped from her chair, eyes wide looking down at the mark— _a Dark Mark!_ —there on her forearm. She scratched at it, but nothing happened. She ran to the sink and began scrubbing, wondering if someone had hit her with some sort of delayed hex.  _Nothing happened._  Tears welled in her eyes, and she felt a panic attack pushing toward the edge of her consciousness when the light in the kitchen flicked on.

"Hermione!"

She turned to see her father, cricket bat in hand, looking around for intruders, while her mother rushed to her side. "What happened?"

Unable to form the words to answer her mother, Hermione looked back down at her arm. It was gone. She sobbed on an exhale and rubbed the skin, relieved to see only scratch marks there. "I'm fine," she whispered shakily. "I fell asleep at the table and had a nightmare."

Twenty minutes later, she filled the bathtub with scalding water and slipped inside, desperate to relax. She couldn't though. Crying, Hermione stared in horror as, one by one, blemishes appeared all over her body. A thick burn on her thigh, a deep cut over her knee, little marks that moved back and forth over her legs and arms and torso like welts from a whip! They faded entirely within the hour, but she couldn't say that it was all just a nightmare.

Not anymore.

* * *

**July 1996**

A  _soulmate_.

 _She_ had a soulmate.

What utter nonsense!

Hermione threw the book on soulmates that she'd ordered from Tomes and Scrolls onto a pile where she kept the Divination texts she'd purchased during third year. A stupid book was still a book, after all, and she hated throwing things away.

* * *

**May 1997**

She and Ron had been close to kissing when Harry burst into the common room, soaking wet and covered in blood.

"Where've you—? Why are you soaking—? Is that  _blood_?!"

"I need your book!" Harry panted. "Your Potions book. Quick, give it to me!"

"But what about the Half-Blood—"

"I'll explain later!"

He had. But not before Ron had seen the scar on Hermione's collarbone, peeking out from under her shirt.

"Is that from the Department of—?"

"What?" She looked down, following his gaze until her eyes widened at the sight of the mark.

She swallowed nervously and then ran up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, threw open the door and ignored Lavender, who was still angry with her since the breakup with Ron. She stared in the large communal mirror, picking at the buttons of her blouse until the deep gash was revealed.

When Harry explained everything an hour later, she forced herself not to vomit.

Draco Malfoy was  _her_ soulmate.

And Harry had almost  _killed_ him.

Had almost killed him— _Draco Malfoy_ —her soulmate.

Her  _soulmate_.

* * *

**March 1998**

Draco looked scared. Terrified even, as he was forced to stand there and stare at her, waiting for instructions. When they finally came, when he was ordered to the cellar below, he paused to stare into her eyes and froze for a long moment before speeding away.

It felt weird that, for as much pain as Granger was in, she looked like she wanted to comfort  _him_.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME!  _CRUCIO_!"

* * *

He dry heaved into the bin beside his bed, shocked that he'd been able to get to his room at all. Wandless, Draco was unable to properly lock his door. When his parents followed him up, he was unable to keep them out despite how much he desperately wanted to be alone as he cried shame into the expensive rug on the ground.

"It'll be all right," Narcissa whispered to him, stroking her fingers over his hunched back as he sobbed.

Lucius cleared his throat. "We'll . . . we'll have to find another way. Another way to appease the Dark Lord. After today . . . we need to do something. Otherwise, I fear—"

"I'm dead," Draco announced.

"Hush," Narcissa pleaded. "Don't say such things."

"I just stood there and did nothing. I did nothing . . . I'm not . . . I did  _NOTHING_!" He turned and yelled, his eyes fixed on his father. For all the anger built up inside of him, Draco would still never turn his rage on his mother, not when he'd sold his soul to the very literal devil in order to keep her safe. "I am a dead man if the Dark Lord wins."

Lucius's eyes widened, and his jaw clenched, not in anger but fear as though the Dark Lord would appear behind him at any moment. "Draco, you can't know what the—"

He pulled back the sleeve of his robe that normally covered his Dark Mark.

Lucius froze.

Narcissa gasped, her eyes watering at the sight. Horrified, she clutched at her chest and whispered, "What have we done?"

There, marring the already ugly reminder that he was a slave to the whims of his Dark Master, was a nasty-looking, red and purple scar:

 _Mudblood_.

* * *

**August 1998**

After the battle, after the trials, after the end of all that was hell, Draco approached her.

It had taken a fifth of firewhisky and an angry pep talk from Daphne—who'd twisted Pansy's arm to come with. The blonde had  _also_ brought along her boyfriend and  _soulmate_ : Harry fucking Potter, who stared at Daphne like she'd hung the bloody moon in the heavens just for him. Draco had scowled at his rival, tempted to tell the man that Daphne had once worn a  _Potter Stinks_  button of Draco's own creation back in fourth year. Daphne, however, was  _frightening_ when properly ticked off, so Draco kept silent while the pair waxed poetic about soulmates and forgiveness and forging ahead into a new and beautiful future.

He'd vomited.

But that was mostly because of the firewhisky.

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

He stared at her from across the table as she sat outside of Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour, and there was a split second where he didn't feel like he was a former Death Eater staring at a war heroine who'd been tortured in his own house; a woman who had been permanently marred with a slur that  _he'd_  first introduced her to.

Was there even a word that could say sorry enough?

"Have a seat," she said and pushed the chair opposite her out for him with her foot. "We should probably talk."

He sat down, unable to properly meet her gaze, and the two sat in silence for a long time.

She sighed, watching as he scratched at his left forearm. "Does  _yours_ hurt too?"

Wincing, he shook his head. He hurt, yes, but Draco imagined they were thinking of different kinds of pain.


	3. Handprint

**January 1985**

Theo woke up the morning of his fifth birthday and had decided he was a man. His father had been talking about teaching him all sorts of important things when he was a man, and Theo was certain that five was old enough to declare oneself fully grown.

He'd dressed in his finest robes and made his way down to breakfast, only to see his mother grin brightly at him and cover her mouth as she tried not to giggle. His father, however, stared at him incredulously with a raised grey eyebrow and sighed heavily.

"I'm grown now," Theo announced after swallowing down his nerves.

Calla Nott bit her lower lip and smiled brightly, reaching across the table to squeeze Thoros's hand.

"That you appear to be," Thoros replied. "After all, only a man fully grown could have a soulmate."

It wasn't true, of course. Anyone magical could have a soulmate, and Theo knew that because his parents had told him about how they'd met. How Thoros Nott had been nearly forty when he'd found out that he'd had a soulmate much younger than he was. He'd waited the appropriate time, naturally, once the first soul scar had appeared on his left knee, and then used their link to communicate with Calla in order to track her down.

Theo had thought he would need to wait just as long to find his soulmate.

Confused at the declaration, he turned to his parents for clarification. Calla summoned a mirror and tugged on Theo's tiny hand, pulling him up into her lap—despite his struggling—and smiled when she held the mirror up to his face.

His mouth fell open, and his cheeks turned red at the sight of the tiny purple handprints all over his face.

* * *

**August 1991**

"I think I love this boy or girl," Calla said sweetly as she watched her eleven-year-old son duck into the dressing room at Madam Malkin's, hiding from anyone that might be able to see him.

"Please, just charm it away, Mum!" he begged from behind the curtains.

Calla smiled and stepped into the small room to find her boy sitting on the floor in a huff, a unicorn drawn on his left cheek, and something that  _might_ have been a chimaera drawn on the right, both bright pink. "They're quite the talented artist, you know."

"Mum!" Theo whinged and threw his head back to reveal fingerprints that ran down his throat.

His soulmate was an artist indeed, one likely lacking in parchment, as Theo had not gone a single day since his fifth birthday without stumbling upon some weird little drawing somewhere on his skin, usually his face.

Calla charmed his skin clean and kissed his forehead, smiling when he allowed the affectionate gesture. She sighed softly. "I'm going to miss you so much."

He looked up at his mother and gave her a crooked grin.

* * *

**September 1991**

His first year at Hogwarts started off pretty well. He had been friends with Draco Malfoy, the son of one of his father's associates, for years, as well as the two bodyguards that followed him everywhere. Theo had never been very close with Greg and Vince, despite arranged playdates growing up. The other Slytherins in his year were easier to get along with. Blaise Zabini took some getting used to, and Pansy had always talked too much for his taste. It was Daphne, however, who quickly became Theo's rock.

During breakfast a little over a week after they arrived at school, he saw little red hearts begin to appear on the skin of his hand, slowly making their way up his arm. "No, no, no," he whispered to himself in horror, knowing that whoever his soulmate was, they never stopped once they got going. Despite having his arms covered by his robes, his face was on full display. He hunched his shoulder and ducked his head down, hoping that no one would notice.

" _Deleo_."

Hearing the spell first and then feeling a tingling wash over his skin, Theo looked up, eyes wide into the blue stare of Daphne Greengrass. "Thank you."

She smiled at him.

"That was . . . impressive. How long have your parents allowed you to use a wand?"

She looked down at her plate, tucking her wand into the sleeve of her robe. Her golden blond hair fell over her forehead, nearly shielding her eyes in the process. "Since I was seven."

"Seven?" he asked, shocked.

"Just the Erase Spell . . . and a Disillusionment," she added with a soft whisper.

"You have one too?"

Daphne looked up at him. "A soulmate?"

He nodded. "I don't know who they are, but they draw on themselves all the time. I can't get away from it," he complained. "Little hearts on my hands, unicorns on my face, words that don't make sense, handprints . . . it's an absolute nightmare."

The girl frowned, and he thought he saw her look across the Great Hall where the Gryffindors were all making a fuss over a package that arrived for Potter. "It could be worse," Daphne said softly.

Just then, Draco stood up, tugging on Crabbe and Goyle's shoulders. "Did you see that? Potter's got a broom, I think. He'll be in so much trouble," he said with glee. "First years aren't allowed brooms. C'mon!"

* * *

**December 1991**

He'd been called home before Christmas hols, told that his mother had taken ill. Nothing could be done, the Healers had said; his father had stormed out, threatening their lives when he discovered that one of them had been a Muggle-born. "Inept Mudbloods!" he shouted, chasing them to the Floo.

Calla sighed and held Theo's hand as he sat by her bedside. When a small, lopsided star appeared on his hand, she smiled brightly, her eyes looking decidedly less dull. "I wish so much for you, my sweet boy," she whispered and touched the star on his skin.

Theo sighed irritably at the sight of the mark.

"Don't hate it," Calla softly told him. "A soulmate can be such a wonderful thing. Make a wish," she said, looking at the star.

He did.

When the star eventually faded minutes later, Theo frowned. "You're still sick," he said. "It didn't work."

Calla smiled. "Maybe it granted  _my_ wish instead."

* * *

He was quiet during the small funeral, politely shaking the hands of people who knew his father. And he did not cry, just as he'd been instructed. When he was finally alone in his room, having walked past the Christmas decorations that had been left out, untouched, he searched frantically for a quill.

_Are you there? Is anyone there at all?_

Half a day had passed before someone wrote back.

_Do you only talk this way?_

Theo's eyes brightened. It was the first time he'd communicated with his soulmate.

_What way?_

_By writing. I've been talking to you for hours. Can you not hear me?_

He stared. What? Of course he couldn't hear them! How preposterous!

_I can talk to you this way._

_Lovely. I've never had a hand for a friend before._

"They're crazy," he muttered to himself. "Great. That's bloody great!"

_I'm not a hand. I'm your soulmate!_

He realised he probably shouldn't be so abrupt with them; his mother wouldn't have approved, and he wasn't sure his father would have either. Still, he'd suffered years of his soulmate using his body as their personal art project, only to find out that they didn't even know what was happening. When they eventually responded with a detailed drawing of a dragon, Theo groaned.

Christmas morning he woke to find his father had left for work, leaving Theo alone to open presents with the house-elves. Instead, the boy had stayed in his room and wrote on the back of his hand.

_My mum died._

It wasn't more than a minute before his soulmate wrote back.

_Mine too._

His heart beat faster, and he finally cried.  _Someone_ understood. Of course his  _soulmate_ would understand.

_I'm Luna._

He smiled sadly at the words, wondering how long his mother had wondered over the identity of the person who had made their—her—presence known in the lives of the Nott family for so many years.  _Luna_ , Theo thought with a smile.

_I'm Theo._

* * *

**June 1996**

He watched her from afar for years. She was younger and in Ravenclaw, and a bit barmy; all things that made it social suicide were he to actually speak to her in public. He was ashamed of himself, of course, but then again, he'd seen her once being teased by her own Housemates when she decided one day to set up a picnic for herself beneath the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall. No amount of pleading with her through their short communications could persuade her to behave otherwise, though she had, at least, stopped drawing on herself at his request.

It wasn't until the end of fourth year that he'd stopped writing back to her. The Dark Lord had returned and the way his father was talking, things were bound to change. Theo wasn't sure if it would be for the better. Despite being a pureblood, Luna was friends with Potter.

She wrote him on occasion, but he did his best to ignore it for her own good. His too.

He'd seen the stress on Daphne's face, having figured out the identity of her soulmate long ago, and Theo did his best to be a good friend to the girl, who would likely end up witnessing the death of Harry Potter before long. He felt shallow when the thought first came to him, but he hoped for Daphne's sake that when the Dark Lord killed Potter, he wouldn't hit him in the face. Daphne was quite pretty.

At the end of fifth year, she'd come running into the boy's dorm room, Silencing Spell cast on her feet. Draco and the others were fast asleep, having been given a Draught to help them relax after the Inquisitorial Squad had an altercation with Potter and his lot. There were few details of what had happened, and Draco was too pissed off to tell anyone that hadn't already been there, which meant that he'd likely had his arse handed to him in the process.

Theo hadn't worried until Daphne appeared by his bedside, a small scar on the side of her cheek.

He looked her over and whispered, "Slicing Hex."

She nodded. "There are more. Astoria has some as well," she said, a worried look in her eyes. "I think they've all gone. All of his friends. What are they doing, Theo? What should . . . should we do something?"

" _Lumos_ ," he whispered and then held his wand out, looking over the skin of his hands and arms, feet and legs, before bringing it to his face. "Anything?" he asked her.

Daphne shook her head. No sooner than she'd spoken, a thick welt developed on Theo's cheek. It lasted only a minute before fading away, but he couldn't go to sleep after that.

The next morning, he woke in the common room, Daphne at the other end of the sofa he slept on. Both hadn't been able to fall asleep until early in the morning when exhaustion took them. Draco walked into the room, hair wet, looking like he'd seen a dementor.

"You all right, Draco?" Daphne asked.

He blinked and looked up, tugging the collar of his shirt as though he were concealing something. The cold mask of indifference slipped back into place. "Fine," he said, and Theo furrowed his brow at the sight of his friend in such a state.

Professor Snape arrived minutes later, excusing Daphne from the room and insisting that someone fetch Vince and Greg. The four boys sat down, staring up at their Head of House with nervous anticipation.

"Is this about Potter?" Draco asked. "I was only following Headmistress Umbridge's orders, and she told us all to—"

"Quiet," Snape said, folding his arms into the sleeves of his black robes. "I'm here to inform you that there was an incident at the Ministry of Magic last night." Theo held his breath, thinking of Luna. "Your fathers were all arrested for breaking into the Department of Mysteries . . . among . . .  _other_ illegalities."

* * *

**December 1996**

Theo hadn't been upset about being left out of the Slug Club, not until Blaise returned from the Christmas party, chuckling under his breath and slurring his words thanks to firewhisky that he'd sneaked. Theo had been reading by the fireplace, trying to catch up on Arithmancy, which he'd been falling behind in that year thanks to the stress of worrying about his father's health in Azkaban.

"Have fun?" he asked his friend.

Blaise drunkenly giggled. "So much," he said. "Draco got caught crashing the event by Filch, and someone slipped a Puking Pastille in McLaggen's drink. The big idiot vomited all over Snape's boots."

Theo couldn't help but snicker lightly. "Who all was there?"

"The who's who of Wizarding society?" Daphne asked, teasingly.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "A bit," he admitted before collapsing on the sofa, kicking a first year off of the end when the boy wouldn't make room on his own. "Couple professional Quidditch players, a bunch of Ministry snobs, and then students with their dates. You'll never believe who Potter brought."

"Who?" Pansy asked.

"Loony Lovegood."

Theo's eyes widened, and he clenched his fist around the edges of his book. He waited quietly for the common room to empty out for the night before he turned and glared at Daphne as though it were her fault. She only rolled her eyes at him. "Oh, should I go and tell Harry Potter that I'd like him to  _not_ take your soulmate to a party?" When Theo scrunched up his nose in annoyance but said nothing, she smirked. "That's what I thought."

* * *

**May 1998**

"But he's there! Potter's there! Someone grab him!"

Theo quietly groaned as Pansy hollered in the Great Hall. He took Daphne's hand and held it tightly so as to keep her from walloping their Housemate in the back of the head for her utter stupidity. Surrounded by Order fanatics with Snape on the run and the Carrows nowhere to be seen, Pansy had shown her hand, and they'd  _all_ surely go down for it. Slytherins stuck together, after all.

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson," Professor McGonagall said in a clipped voice. "You will leave the Hall first with Mr Filch. If the rest of your House could follow."

"It'll be okay," Theo said to Daphne as they turned along with their classmates. "You have to think of Astoria, right? And we have to look after the little ones. Staying out of this is . . . it's better. Isn't it?"

Daphne shrugged, though she'd turned back to stare at Harry Potter, who was distracted by McGonagall. "I have to . . . No, you're right . . . My sister. I need to take care of my sister."

As they moved out of the Great Hall, Theo caught sight of her, dirty blond hair and a new scar on the side of her cheek that he'd shared for all of an hour with her a month earlier when she'd apparently received it. She'd gone missing at Christmas and Theo had finally lost it, taking Draco aside and threatening his friend over the welfare of the girl—his  _soulmate_.

"She's at my house," Draco had confessed. "She's fine. My mother's . . . She'll be looked after. I promise. I'll check on her myself when I go home for Easter." Theo trusted his friend to keep his word, but when Draco didn't return to Hogwarts, he'd feared for  _both_ of their lives.

Panicked, he'd written to Luna.

_Are you all right?_

There hadn't been a reply.

So when his eyes locked on her in the Great Hall, he left Daphne's side and rushed toward the Ravenclaw, reaching out and pulling her into his arms. "You're alive!"

She smiled at him. "Hello, Theodore. Oh, are you leaving with your friends?"

He looked back at the other Slytherins, many who were gaping at him. "Luna, you have to leave. It's dangerous."

She looked down, noticing their fingers were laced together. "This is the first time you've ever touched me," she said simply and then kissed his cheek. "It won't be the last. Go on," she encouraged. "You have to look after your friends, and I have to do the same for mine. Take care of Daphne." Theo's eyes widened. "Harry will feel guilty enough over all of this nonsense. If she gets hurt, it'll just make him feel worse, I suspect."

"What about  _you_?"

Luna smiled brightly, eyes twinkling. "Meet me by the thestrals when this is all over?"

Theo winced. He hated the thestrals.

But he thought, that perhaps, he quite loved Luna.

So he agreed.

"When it's over."


	4. Quiet

**March 1986**

"You're going to be in so much trouble," Dennis said, watching as his brother wobbled on the edge of the books, desperately trying to reach the back of the stove where a pot was hissing loudly. The funny thing was, the pot was empty, and the stove hadn't been turned on.

"Quiet, Dennis." Colin cringed as he tried to reach the pot to make it stop.

Weird things had been happening for a year or so around the house, and their mother was determined to move if anything else happened, claiming that there might be ghosts in the basement. Colin knew that they couldn't move. Not again. He'd finally made friends at his school, and the last thing he needed was to be uprooted.

"Why's it doing that?" Dennis asked again, clutching his stuffed lion to his chest nervously.

"Dunno," Colin said, "but I'm gonna make it stop."

* * *

Greg stared at the scar in the centre of his palm. It was a small burn, likely from grabbing the hot handle of a pot from a stove. Except Greg wasn't allowed in the kitchens with the house-elves. The burn, wherever it had come from, didn't belong to him.

Worried that he'd get in trouble for it regardless, he kept it a secret from his parents. Not that it mattered; the scar faded within the hour.

* * *

**January 1992**

Greg overheard Pansy crying in the common room, complaining to Daphne about some mark on her face.

"Whoever he is, he's a bloody tosser," she was saying in between sobs. "Probably some Quidditch loon. Can you make it go away?"

Daphne sighed irritably. "Hold still so I can get a proper look at it."

"Look at what?" Greg asked curiously and earned death stares from both girls.

"Go away!" Pansy shrieked and burst into a fresh set of tears. "And don't you dare tell Draco about this!"

Greg furrowed his brow, tempted to tell Pansy that Draco wasn't the boss of him, and he didn't just lurk around to report back to Malfoy, not like his dad did with Draco's father. "I was just . . . wanted to make sure you were all right," he said, annoyed. "Screaming an' all." He eventually saw what Pansy was trying to hide; a thin scar across the bridge of her nose with a blunt mark on the end that looked like she'd been hit with something small and sharp. "It's not contagious, is it?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "It's a soul scar," she told him and then turned back to Pansy when the girl scoffed loudly. "What? If you don't tell him something, he really will blab to Draco."

"What's a soul scar?"

Pansy stopped crying and started laughing. "Oh, Greggy . . . You poor thing."

* * *

**September 1992**

"Potter's not here," Draco was mumbling as he scanned the whole Great Hall. "Weasley's gone too. You think something bad happened to them? I saw the sister on the train, maybe they could only afford to send so many kids to Hogwarts and had to keep the dumbest one at home."

Vince chuckled next to him, unaware of the glare that Daphne was sending them from across the table. Greg caught the look, however, and glanced away from her, deciding to keep his mouth shut. McGonagall came in, followed by the first years for the Sorting. The Sorting Hat was put on the stool while the old witch pulled out her long list of names.

Greg watched with interest, passing a few coins back and forth between his friends, placing bets on who would go where.

"Weaslette's in Gryffindor, obviously," Pansy said with a sneer.

"What about that blond girl," Tracey asked, gesturing to a wide-eyed little witch. "I'm saying Hufflepuff."

"Ravenclaw," Daphne guessed.

"Gryffindor," Greg chimed in, unaware that Theo had stopped playing.

"Mudblood's up first," Draco said, gesturing to the small blond boy, who approached the stool with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Greg remembered the boy from the train. When he and Vince had followed Draco to go and cause trouble with Potter and Weasley, only to stumble upon Granger and Longbottom alone and unaware of the location of their friends, they'd run across the boy speaking with the trolley lady, buying as much off the cart as he could manage. He'd been talking non-stop, and Greg winced when he heard the boy mention Harry Potter. It didn't take long to sort out that the first year was a Muggle-born, and one that had read enough of his new history books to know who Potter was. It didn't take much to rile Draco up, but Potter did the trick.

"A new fan?" Draco had said before snatching a box of Bertie Botts from the boy's hand. "Harry Potter Fan Club charges fees, didn't you hear?"

Greg had laughed right along with his friends, and when Vince stole two pumpkin pasties from the boy, Greg took his Chocolate Frogs.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Everyone at the table blinked in confusion, but Draco rolled his eyes. "Great," he said with a groan, "another one."

They watched as the boy rushed to his cheering table, the Weasley twins making a grand show like they'd done the year before. The robes the boy wore, however, were much too large for his frame and without magical parents to alter them properly, he'd stumbled, stepped on the hem, and crashed face first to the floor.

Nearly everyone in the Great Hall burst into laughter, Greg included. Granger threw a glare at them all from across the room as she moved to help her fellow Muggle-born. They were still giggling when the next first year was called to the stool, wiping tears from their faces from laughing so hard.

"Greg," Daphne whispered from across the table, blue eyes wide as she stared at him.

"What?"

She scratched her eyebrow and, in confusion; Greg mimicked her only to feel a small mark there. He swallowed nervously and grabbed his spoon, shining it on his robes so that he could see clearly. His face was upside-down, but he could see it clear as day. A small mark there, splitting the skin. He looked up at his Housemate, who was now staring across the room, where Hermione Granger was attempting to heal a cut on Colin Creevey's brow.

* * *

**November 1992**

He didn't know what he'd done wrong, but the Swelling Solution in his cauldron had exploded, showering the rest of the class but mostly himself and Draco. While Snape attended to Draco personally, giving the rest of the class a Deflating Draught, he'd given Greg detention despite the fact that his potion had been tampered with, and sent him to the infirmary, insisting that Madam Pomfrey could deal with his injuries.

He waited quietly while the mediwitch fetched a Deflating Draught and some dittany, mumbling under her breath about how ridiculous it was that Snape couldn't do it himself. While she was gone, Greg walked over to a curtained-off bed and peeked behind it.

The petrified form of Colin Creevey rested there.

Greg felt guilt sink into his bones. Soulmate. He had a soulmate, and the first thing that Greg had done, was steal the boy's sweets on the train. A Muggle-born, though. Merlin, his father wouldn't stand for that. He'd be less upset about his son's soulmate being a boy than a Muggle-born.

"Sorry," Greg mumbled quietly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the Chocolate Frog Card that had come from the package he'd taken from Colin. He placed it by the Gryffindor's bed and quickly darted back to the other side of the hospital wing.

* * *

**January 1998**

Colin stared at his hand curiously as another small line appeared in ink. It happened at least twice a week, sometimes late in the evenings as well. Having nothing else to do aside from worry about the war taking place in the world he'd been pushed from, he'd began keeping track of the lines. It was toward the end of his fifth year when he'd taken Hermione aside and asked her about the scars on his body that would appear and then vanish, and she'd told him she would find a few books since she was researching something similar.

Soul scars.

A soulmate.

Colin had written messages, like the book had talked about, trying to discover who this mystery person was, but nothing ever came back. He spent hours wondering what they were like. The books mentioned that a lot of the pureblood families—though not all—believed that a soulmate was magic finding your one true love, your best match, and treated it like a precursor to a betrothal contract. Colin didn't know if he believed in that. Afterall, what if his soulmate turned out to be a girl? Few knew—aside from Dennis—that that when Colin went to Hogsmeade, it was usually to meet up with Justin Finch-Fletchley; or had been until the Hufflepuff had given the most awkward breakup speech that had ever existed, going so far as to claim that he needed to focus on his schoolwork, nevermind that he'd already taken his exams.

It wasn't until just after the start of February that Colin figured out the pattern. Hogwarts. Whoever was marking their hand, whoever his soulmate was, attended Hogwarts. The marking had begun during the first week of September and had a routine on certain days that Colin figured meant specific classes. He hadn't figured it out until the markings stopped when Hogwarts students would have been out of classes for the winter hols, but the marks picked right back up the first week of January.

"Colin," his mother said, clearing her throat, "pay attention, love."

He watched as the line faded away like it always did, and returned his focus to the workbook in front of him. Despite being in hiding for their own protection, his mother had decided to homeschool he and Dennis, no matter how much they tried to tell her that they needed to focus on magic; that they needed to prepare.

* * *

"Well done, Mr Goyle," Amycus Carrow said with a sickening grin, patting Greg on the back. Neville Longbottom was still twitching on the ground from the recent Cruciatus Curse that Greg had been forced to cast on him.

Greg smiled, pretending to preen under the attention of his professor, and then looked away from Longbottom as quickly as possible. Returning to his desk next to Vince, he studiously avoided the glares that the rest of the Gryffindors were throwing at him. Thankfully, a pair of blue eyes were missing from the crowd. Muggle-borns hadn't been allowed back, after all. Greg was grateful. He didn't know if he could keep himself safe under the watch of the Carrows and worry about Colin.

Merlin forbid he'd be required to Crucio his own soulmate.

Swallowing down the rising guilt as Longbottom murmured that he was just fine to his friends, Greg pulled out a quill and rolled up his sleeve, adding another tally to the people he'd one day have to ask forgiveness from.

* * *

**May 1998**

While the Aurors spoke to Draco's parents, Greg sat down beside his friend. His only friend left in the world now that Crabbe was dead. The battle was long over with, but everyone remained inside the Great Hall. The body of the Dark Lord had been taken away, for which everyone was grateful, but the dead heroes remained lined up on one end of the large room. Greg stayed away from that area.

He'd seen Colin in the middle of the battle, running with his wand out into the fray, and Greg doubted the magic right then and there. How could someone  _that_  brave be  _his_  soulmate? He'd very briefly thought about running after him, stunning him from behind and carrying him away somewhere to keep him safe, but Vince had tugged on his arm and said, "Hurry up!" and Greg had obediently followed his friends into the Room of Hidden Things.

Now Crabbe was dead.

So was Colin.

And Greg had never said a word.

When Harry Potter returned to the Great Hall, following the released Slytherins, he was holding Daphne's hand much to the shock of everyone that saw it.

"Fucking great," Draco mumbled next to him.

"Think he's her soulmate?"

Draco shrugged. "Knowing our luck? Yes."

He waited just a beat before whispering, "Mine was."

"Was what?"

"My soulmate," he said, turning to look at his friend. "They . . . er . . .  _he_ was a Gryffindor."

Draco frowned, not even stopping the genuine look of sadness and sympathy that crossed his face. They'd both lost a friend and cried over it together; there was no point in hiding anymore. Not with each other. "Was?"

Greg nodded. "Dead."

Draco sighed. "I'm sorry."

"He was a Muggle-born," Greg said firmly, his jaw tightening as he prepared for Draco to say something rude. His fists were clenched, a part of him wondering if he was willing to punch his only friend left in the world in defence of a dead Muggle-born that may or may not have been . . . something . . . something more.

Instead, all Draco did was grip his left arm tightly, quietly repeating his earlier apology.

* * *

**2001**

Years later, Greg stood uncomfortably in the back of the large ballroom, watching as Draco spun his Muggle-born bride around on the dance floor. He hated wearing dress robes. They never fit him properly. They clung to him in a way that Theo, Blaise, and Draco would never understand, but he still wore them. He had few friends and wasn't about to show up to a wedding wearing something plain just because it was comfortable.

Greg stared at Theo, who was beaming at his wife. Luna Nott, dressed in yellow, was spinning off on the side of the dance floor, the largest sunflower Greg had ever seen secured in her hair like a hat.

He gave half a smile when Draco dipped Granger—now Malfoy—so low that her feet actually came out from under her and he had to pull her up into his arms. The witch smacked his shoulder a few times, insisting that he put her down right that second, and Draco just laughed.

It was good to see his friend laugh again.

The flash of a camera nearby caught his attention, and Greg felt a familiar lump in his throat when Dennis Creevey said, "Smile!"


	5. Switcheroo

**October 1991**

"So what you're telling me . . . is that before you were old enough to properly walk, your parents discovered that you had a mystical, magical soulmate and have spent your entire life furthering the idea that one day you'll meet your fairy princess, and run off into the sunset together?" Blaise asked Draco, who was turning redder and redder—or, well . . . pinker and pinker, he supposed.

"Fuck off, arsehole!" Draco spat angrily and stormed off toward the dorm rooms, Greg and Vince tailing him.

"Pleasant dreams, mate!" Blaise shouted after him, giggling to himself as he flopped on the sofa in front of the fireplace. "Prat."

Theo and Daphne were glaring at him.

"What?" he asked. "Don't tell me that you two believe that utter nonsense?"

"How do you  _not_?" Daphne asked angrily, as though Blaise's disbelief had personally offended her. "How can you honestly not believe when there's proof. Messages communicated back and forth between soulmates—"

"Protean Charm," Blaise countered.

"Soul scars," Theo said, narrowing his eyes at the Italian. "Explain scars that just appear on your body and then vanish."

"It's mass hysteria perpetuated by rumours. The older families barely even talked about it, according to you lot, so I'm guessing it's a new . . . ridiculous fad. A trick of the mind," Blaise said with a grin. "You said they vanish, right? So where's the proof?

Daphne picked up her books and stomped her feet a little, snapping, "They don't  _always_ vanish," as she left the boys alone in the common room.

Blaise stared after her as she left; she was awfully pretty to stare at. "What's her problem?"

Theo sighed in exasperation and stood up, flicking his wand at the fireplace on his way out, extinguishing it and leaving Blaise alone in the dark.

* * *

**September 1993**

"Watch out!" Blaise snapped as he nearly tripped over a second year Gryffindor on the stairs. He'd accidentally kicked the boy, who'd stumbled to the ground, knocking his chin on the floor. Blaise stopped only to examine his boots. "You're lucky," he told the Gryffindor. "These aren't just  _any_ dragon hide, you see. Ironbelly. Bloody rare and expensive."

The boy rolled his eyes and walked off.

Blaise muttered, "Rude," under his breath before turning around and walking right into Greg, who might as well have been a brick wall. Stumbling, Blaise sighed and looked up at his Housemate, who was glaring down at him like he'd done something wrong. "What?"

Greg angrily exhaled through his nose. "Nothing."

"On your way then?" Blaise suggested, dropping his arm in a dramatic bow and then laughing when Greg shoved him aside. "Everyone's in a mood today."

Dusting off his robes, Blaise looked down to adjust his family ring and  _that_ was when he saw it. A teeny, tiny prick of a scar on the very tip of his index finger.

Then, just like that, it vanished.

And Blaise screamed.

* * *

"It was there! I'm telling you!"

Daphne and Theo blinked incredulously at Blaise. The witch was twirling a lock of golden hair over her forehead and around one finger while staring mockingly at the frantic Italian. Theo, on the other hand, was tugging down the sleeve of his robes and trying to ignore him. Greg stood in the corner, picking at a small scar on his chin.

Draco, however, was scowling. "A tiny mark on your finger," he drawled, scoffing as he rubbed his fingers against the sofa in a vain hope that it would make the ink stains vanish. "You poor fucking thing."

Daphne stifled a laugh and pushed her face against Theo's arm.

"It's real," Blaise was mumbling over and over again, eyes wide, positively flabbergasted. "I know you all said but . . . it's real. I have a soulmate. Do you think she's pretty? She must be beautiful to be my soulmate."

Pansy walked over and sat down beside Draco, rolling her eyes at the dramatics. "Which finger did it show up on?"

Blaise held up his index finger and showed her, as though the scar was still there.

"Huh," she muttered curiously and sent a side-eyed glance to Draco while Blaise was focused on the place where the scar used to be. "Didn't  _Potter_ cut that same finger in Potions earlier?"

"What?" Blaise asked, his brow furrowing. "I don't remember . . . but that wouldn't . . ." His eyes widened and he swallowed hard. "No."

Draco quickly hid away the sly grin that nearly crossed his face at Pansy's words, and he shared a look with Theo and Daphne. "That  _would_ make sense," he muttered to himself.

Blaise suddenly looked panicked. "How would that . . .? But the . . ." he said and touched his forehead.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "This is why you should listen to us, Blaisey.  _Everyone_ knows that soul scars aren't transferable when Dark Magic is involved."

Daphne and Theo sighed, shaking their heads at the easy manipulation of their Housemate and stood to leave the room. Blaise sat on the sofa, slowly watching as his entire life ended at the realisation that Harry Potter was his godsforsaken soulmate.

"But . . . that  _hair_ ," was all he could finally say, slumping forward in misery.

* * *

**November 1994**

Blaise had been such a nightmare about Harry Potter being his soulmate, that if his panic and constant pacing hadn't been incredibly amusing, Draco and Pansy might've confessed about the ruse early on. Blaise was, if nothing else, dramatically entertaining. The joke was almost over the night that he stormed in after spying on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, confused as to why he hadn't been turned on by watching a sweaty Potter fly around the pitch in tight pants and Quidditch gear.

"And you're certain that you really gave him a good look?" Pansy asked, abundantly entertained. "I mean a really good look, Blaise. This is your soulmate. You can't half-arse this like a History of Magic essay."

Blaise nodded. "Pansy, don't you think that if I was going to test whether or not I'm bent, I'd be thorough?"

Greg made a strange huffing noise and silently excused himself from the room.

"Did you get a good look at his arse?" Daphne suggested with a small smirk. When Draco and Theo both stared at her with disgusted expressions on their faces, she gracefully shrugged. "Gryffindor or not, he's got a  _brilliant_ arse."

Blaise glared at her. "Hey! That might be  _my arse_  you're talking about! Don't look at Potter's arse unless I give you explicit permission!"

Pansy choked on the sugar quill she'd been sucking on.

"Either way," Daphne muttered, looking at her nails, "you should probably figure out whether or not you're gay before you decide to tell Potter that he's your soulmate. He's been raised by Muggles, for Merlin's sake.  _You'll_ have to be the one to teach him everything."

Blaise nodded, scratching at his chin in contemplation. "You're right, Daphne," he said and then, before anyone had a chance to react to his quick movement, he grabbed Draco by the face, planting his hands on either side of the blond's cheeks and pressed his mouth against the other boy's.

Draco made a loud muffled sound of disagreement and tried kicking his passionate Italian friend away while the girls erupted into a fit of giggles. "Nope," Blaise said, pulling away with a loud, wet SMACK. "Not bent."

"What the fuck?!" Draco screamed, wiping his sleeve against his lips. "You put your tongue in my mouth, you wanker!"

"And now I know I'm not gay," Blaise said, looking confused as to why Draco was so upset.

Pansy was on the floor, holding her side. "Are you certain? I mean . . . it could just be that you're not attracted to Draco. He's not entirely the loveliest of the boys in this room," she said and glanced at Theo.

"No!" Theo said, pointing his finger in Blaise's face before the boy got any ideas.

* * *

**February 1995**

"I'm going to be sick," Blaise said, clutching Draco's arm with one hand, Pansy's with the other. Both were staring into the dark water in front of them, watching nervously as Cedric Diggory pulled Cho Chang to the dock.

"If you throw up on my boots, I will murder you," Draco said with a growl.

Blaise angled his body more toward Pansy.

"I'll make it a slow death," she threatened.

Viktor Krum breached the water just as the Beauxbatons' champion burst into hysterical tears on the dock where her Headmistress was wrapping a large, thick blanket around her body, muttering soft assurances in French. Pansy let out a disgruntled sigh. "Honestly, the Mudblood? Again?" she said, glaring as Krum practically carried Granger onto the dock like they were straight out of a fairy tale book. "This stupid tournament has been more about her than Potter."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Ignore it, Pans. She's nothing."

"I got bit," Blaise whispered, nudging Draco in the rib cage. "Look, look, I got  _bit_."

His voice was quiet but high-pitched and panicky as he held out his hand and showed it to his friend. Sure enough, an oddly shaped scar appeared on Blaise's hand. Both Draco and Pansy blinked in confusion, and the witch looked over to the blond and silently mouthed, "Is it possible? Potter?" while Draco adamantly shook his head.

When Harry Potter broke the surface shortly after Weasley and the little blond girl, Blaise breathed a heavy sigh of relief, saying, "He's alive. It's okay, he's alive," as though Pansy and Draco gave a hair over Harry Potter's health and wellness. Before anyone else could notice Blaise's strange behaviour, he turned his back as Potter climbed up onto the docks with the assistance from the other Gryffindors.

The three Slytherins, however, were nearly knocked into the water when Fleur Delacour pushed her way past them, falling to her knees and embracing the little girl. "Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she 'urt?"

"She's fine!" Potter yelled.

Delacour hugged her sister tighter as a blanket was draped over the girl. "It was ze grindylows . . . zey attacked me . . . oh Gabrielle, I thought . . . I thought . . ."

Gabrielle Delacour lifted up her hand. "Zey got  _me_ too," she said, showing her the bite mark on her hand.

Blaise's eyes went wide and he turned and glared at Draco and Pansy. "It's not Potter."

Pansy snorted. "It's not Potter."

Draco grinned. "To be fair . . . she is a  _veela_."

"I'm going to throw you in the lake," Blaise threatened, his dark cheeks turning and even darker red from embarrassment. "I'm going to throw you in the lake and drown you."

Theo chuckled from nearby. "Don't worry too much, Draco. I'm sure he'd be happy to give you mouth to mouth afterward."

* * *

**2002**

Blaise swallowed what few nerves he had as he walked across the ballroom, smirking at the way that Harry Potter's face scrunched up in disgust when Daphne licked her hand and ran it through his messy fringe, trying to get it to stay put as the wedding photographer—one of Greg's weird Muggle-born friends, Blaise recalled—took snapshots of the happy couple.

Blaise had spent years after the war drinking and sleeping his way through Italy, where he'd gone with his mother to hide from the aftermath of Voldemort. It wasn't long until his friends—mostly an irate Pansy—dragged him back, insisting that if he wanted to drink himself to death, he could do it in Britain. He and Pansy had spent the better part of six months casually dating when Pansy drunkenly broke up with him. She confessed that she'd only slept with him to numb the pain of knowing that her soulmate was married to someone else. Blaise had been a good friend to indulge her, but he still had a chance with his own, and she was letting him have it.

He'd never been nervous around girls.

But this wasn't just  _any_ girl.

Her silvery hair was curled at the ends and hung down to the middle of her back. She was prettier than her sister, Blaise thought, who was busy trying to wrangle a screaming toddler that was demanding to be picked up, ignoring the fact that her mother was what looked to be, nearly ready to give birth again.

Blaise looked at Gabrielle's hand and breathed a sigh of relief. No ring. Not only that, but the grindylow scar had remained, even after all these years. He'd known that it would. Grindylows were  _technically_ Dark creatures, and his own matching scar stood out boldly on his hand. The same hand that he held out to her.

"May I have this dance?"

Without even looking at him, Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Non. Go and find someone else."

He shared a look with Fleur Weasley, who'd caught sight of his hand and was standing there, wide eyed and open mouthed, staring at him. "I would ask Harry Potter to dance," Blaise said with an amused grin, "but I think his new wife might take issue."

Gabrielle softly laughed, which was what he'd been going for. In reality, Daphne would likely think Blaise dancing with her husband would be the funniest thing in the world, but he wouldn't dare give Draco and Pansy the chance to poke fun at him again.

"I don't dance with just anyone," Gabrielle said stiffly, likely the result of having a lifetime full of idiots falling all over her because of her veela allure. She turned and finally looked at the man, and his heart pounded as though it had been still and quiet for far too long, refusing to be contained any longer. As her gaze connected with his, she placed her hand into his care without even a glance at their matching scars.

Blaise grinned. "Sweet witch, I am not just  _anyone_."


	6. Misunderstanding

**February 1985**

"Oh gods, what have you done now?"

Posy Parkinson could feel her face growing hot with anger and embarrassment. It was the first time in years that her sister-in-law had thrown a party in the old Greengrass Manor and, despite being family, Laurel and Hyperion hadn't done much to socialise with Posy and Peneus. It wasn't as though Greengrasses were any better than them, of course. Laurel had only given birth to two girls, and Posy was certain her next would be a boy, and that Pansy was just a fluke.

Pansy, who had an ugly stain on her face.

"Stop crying!" Posy snapped, going to far as to cover her five-year-old's mouth to stifle the sound of whimpering. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," Pansy insisted as tears fell down her cheeks.

"What did you get into?"

"Nothing!"

"I'm having your father take you home before someone—"

"Is everything all right, Posy?" Laurel asked as she walked into the large bathroom where the mother and daughter had vanished. Daphne stood at her side, clinging to her mother's skirt and peeking through thick blond fringe at her cousin.

"Just fine, just fine," Posy insisted, shoving Pansy behind her.

* * *

**November 1986**

She was as delicate a flower as her name implied.

At least until she made friends with boys.

Despite being raised to appreciate all the various notes of tea, the various meanings of flowers, and what polite conversation between the different hierarchies of society witches was, Pansy Parkinson loved nothing so much as Quidditch. Nothing, except of course, besting Draco, Vince, and Greg  _at_ Quidditch. Theo was always easy to beat seeing that he'd much rather read than play in the mud with the rest of them. Mud, because it rained earlier and the brooms had been charmed not to hover more than fifteen feet from the ground. Draco liked to dive and take sharp turns, most of which ended with him bum first in puddles while Greg and Vince laughed and flew into one another. Pansy, however, had the best grip on the Quaffle and an amazing aim.

She felt elated when the boys cheered for her as she landed after scoring another ten points, though no one had kept score in months since they'd started playing. Theo often pretended to, only to roll his eyes when Pansy or Draco got into an argument over who had actually won.

When Posy Parkinson stepped through the Malfoy's Floo, Lucius kept her easily distracted with typical, manipulative flirting, while Narcissa scooted away to charm Pansy's dress clean of mud and dirt, and create some fantastical tale about the lovely tea they'd had, followed by a walk through the garden while the boys did silly  _boy_ things.

"Don't they look so handsome together?" Posy asked as Pansy walked in, her hand tucked into Draco's arm the way that his parents had taught him. Overhearing, Draco struggled not to grimace, but Pansy's face remained stony and emotionless. She knew better than to react.

Narcissa gave Posy a polite smile. "Who knows, Posy? Perhaps there's a wedding in our future."

Pansy raised a small brow at the older witch, catching on quickly. She  _knew_ there wouldn't be a wedding. Not for her and Draco. Draco had a soulmate, and it wasn't her; their scars didn't match. She knew because she'd purposely let herself crash just once while flying, skinning her knee on a rock behind Malfoy Manor. Draco had rushed to help her up, and she'd tugged him to the ground, forcing him to pull his trouser leg up and show her his pale, flawless skin.

At the strange looks, Greg, Vince, and Theo had done the same.

Draco had a soulmate.

Maybe  _she_ didn't.

* * *

**November 1992**

Pansy had a soulmate.

And he was a clumsy bastard.

"Can you fix it?" she asked Daphne, who was the best at Glamour Charms, as she sat in their shared dorm room. Their other roommates, Tracey and Millie, had been ushered out at Pansy's insistence. Tracey was a bit of a gossip, and Millie was still angry with Pansy for accidentally stepping on her cat's tail earlier that month. She didn't need either girl to have information against her. Like how there was an ugly scar that looked as though her lip had been split clean open.

"Quidditch player?" Daphne asked as she applied the Glamour Charm on Pansy's face, making it extra strong considering the depth of it. Whoever Pansy's soulmate was, he took hits and then just got up and kept on taking more.

"Stupid game," Pansy muttered angrily. "I  _hate_ Quidditch. I hate Quidditch  _players_."

Daphne frowned and whispered, "You love it. You're still just mad because your mother won't let you play."

Pansy looked away from the blonde, running her tongue over the inside of her bottom lip as the magic tingled. "They didn't have spots open for Chaser anyway," she said with a melodramatic sigh, purposely rolling her eyes and forcing the airy tone in her voice so as to hide the fact that it really  _had_ meant something to her to lose the chance to play for her House. Fake drama was better than real. Still, Draco got on the team and she was happy for him.

She could celebrate with her friends.

Daphne let out a long suffering sigh and reached for her wand again.

Pansy's eyes widened. "What?"

"You've another one," Daphne said and touched the bridge of Pansy's nose where a new scar had developed.

Growling and hissing as she made her way to the bathroom—louder than Millie's stupid cat—Pansy shrieked when she looked in the mirror. The mirror, in return, made a loud tsking noise and said, "Oh dear, you'll never land a husband with a nose like that."

_CRACK!_

Pansy didn't need to be reminded about her nose. She certainly didn't need another scar on top of the small misshapen thing to draw more attention to it, so she walked back into her room to let her cousin teach her the charms while also pulling tiny bits of broken mirror from her knuckles.

* * *

**August 1994**

She hid away in her family's tent and cried. Pansy rarely cried and never in front of people. Very few people had ever seen it happen and those people had been sworn to secrecy. Her mother always told her to stop it because she didn't cry like a lady, instead sobbed openly, her face turning red and twisting up into an ugly grimace. "Do you think Narcissa Malfoy wipes snot on her sleeve?" she'd been asked when she was just seven.

Draco had seen her cry plenty of times. He poked fun at her and rolled his eyes over whatever had brought on the tears, but then always offered his monogrammed handkerchief to her the way his father had taught him to do for a lady. He acted like it bothered him, but Pansy could always see the undercurrent of concern in his gaze. They'd been friends since they were tiny children and knew each other's worst secrets; Draco's was that he was secretly a bit of a softie.

She wasn't surprised when he'd been the one to find her.

"Pansy? You missed it! Ireland won but Krum . . . oh, you should have seen it, Pans! He tricked Lynch into crashing and then he caught the Snitch after taking a Bludger to the face! I—Pans?"

She was curled up on the floor with her knees tucked into her chest and her arms wrapped around them, the lower half of her face buried in the crook of her elbow. She looked up at Draco with wet eyes and sniffled loudly.

He frowned. "What happened?"

"I saw it," she muttered quietly. "I was there. I saw  _stupid_ Krum catch the  _stupid_ Snitch and then my mother—" Her words were cut off with a loud hiccough. "Stupid Krum."

Brow furrowed, Draco walked closer to her and tugged her arms away from her face. His silver eyes widened. "Oh . . . Salazar, you're in for it," he muttered to himself. "Lucky girl," he added with a teasing grin.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Sod off."

He knelt down in front of her, tilting her chin up with his hands so that he could see her face better in the light. The soul scars were deep and dark and looked like bruising, as black as Draco's fingers usually were during school. "I've never seen bruises from a soulmate before. Then again, it was a pretty nasty break from what I could see. I watched it on father's Omnioculars over and over again. Brilliant catch."

Pansy scowled. "I'm not so sure he is."

Draco gave her a small smirk. "I was talking about the Snitch, dummy. Come on, father has something important to do, but mother's back at our tent. She can fix your face before your parents see it," he said and then grabbed her by the hand, yanking her to her feet. "So . . . Viktor Krum."

Pansy sighed. "Viktor bloody Krum."

* * *

**November 1994**

She'd laughed before at Draco's jokes at Granger's expense, but Pansy hadn't gone much out of her way to taunt the Mudblood herself until fourth year. Fourth year when, for some inexplicable reason, Pansy had caught Viktor Krum— _her_  soulmate—smiling at Granger in the library and talking in hushed tones as though they were old friends.

Granger, who already had Potter and Weasley to fawn all over her when she wanted, and wasn't Krum's soulmate, and didn't have to bear his multitude of scars from flying face first into the ground over and over again; scars from duelling at Durmstrang where the Dark Arts were approved of and encouraged; scars that were permanently on his body from Dark hexes; scars that Pansy wore as well. There was a circle-shaped one just below her left breast, and one that Daphne had seen in the showers on her back that looked like someone had tried cutting her in half.

Granger didn't have to wear those, but she still smiled at Krum as though she had the right to.

And Pansy  _hated_ her.

The  _Daily Prophet_  fell on the table showing a full profile on Harry Potter and the Triwizard Tournament. Pansy glanced at it, doing her best not to let her gaze linger on the photograph of Viktor Krum on the page. She rolled her eyes as Draco sniggered about some quote from Potter in the paper.

"Listen to this," he said and then cleared his throat as he read aloud, " _Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school."_

Daphne was making a loud scoffing noise that she quickly hid by pretending to choke on her pumpkin juice, but Pansy saw red. "Stunningly pretty?  _Her_?" she shrieked loudly and made eye contact with Granger across the Great Hall, making sure the girl heard her. "What was she judging against—a chipmunk?"

* * *

**December 1994**

The Slytherins all went to the Yule Ball together. Pansy took Draco's arm while Daphne stuck to Theo's side. Blaise had ended up convincing Tracey Davis to give it a go, mostly because he didn't want to be caught staring at Harry Potter all night—a lovely joke that helped break up the miserable year that Pansy had been having.

She tensed when the Champions were brought in, and the whole room appeared to stop and stare at the sight of Hermione Granger on the arm of Viktor Krum. Pansy squeezed Draco's arm tightly, but didn't notice that his eyes lingered on Granger a little too long, his fingers twitching just slightly.

* * *

**September 1996**

"It's not for forever," Draco whispered to her. "You know that we both have soulm—"

"Shut up," Pansy said and kissed him hard, pushing all her jealousy and pain into him, regardless of the fact that—thanks to that fancy new Mark on his arm—he had plenty of his own pain to deal with. They could distract one another for the time being.

He wouldn't think about his father in Azkaban, his mother and their current houseguest, or the soulmate he'd likely drag to hell with him. She wouldn't think about Quidditch, Bulgaria, or the fact that a new scar had appeared on her stomach two days ago and never went away.

* * *

**August 1998**

"I suppose this meeting is because you're expecting some sort of apology?" Pansy asked with a raised brow.

She had been invited to the reopening of The Black Dragon, the nicest restaurant in Diagon Alley, somewhere that she'd been shocked had let her through the doors. It wasn't a secret that she'd very loudly suggested stringing Potter up like a stuffed pig for the Dark Lord to devour; at least, that's how the papers painted it. She became an overnight villain instead of the scared girl she was, worried about her friends—mostly Draco, who'd never returned to Hogwarts following Easter hols. Not to mention the fact that the  _Daily Prophet_  had mentioned resistance groups rising up in Bulgaria and she'd just wanted the damned war to be over so people stopped suffering and dying. What was one boy compared to all that carnage? No, she'd become the bad guy. The Dark Lord was dead and survivors needed  _someone_ to hate.

Harry Potter stared at her from across the table, squeezing Daphne's hand gently as he chewed on his lips as though the words he was looking for were stuck there. Draco sat at her side, blond fringe hanging in his face. She wondered if he'd been drinking this early again. He'd been fantastically stupid since the final battle, despite having narrowly escaped Azkaban thanks to his mother and the black-haired tosser sitting in front of them, who was stroking Daphne's fingers like she was Venus come to life.

"I don't expect an apology," Potter finally said. "We all do things when we're scared."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Oh, the famous Golden Trio gets scared?" she asked sarcastically. "Oh, that's right. Except when  _I_ was scared, I tried ending a war; and when  _you_ were scared, you tried to slice my best friend in half."

Draco groaned and threw his head back. "Don't bring me into this."

"Don't be a baby," Daphne said. "We're not here for Pansy, we're here for  _you_."

Pansy blinked. "Wait . . . so why am  _I_  here?"

"Because you're Daphne's cousin and Malfoy's friend and we were hoping that you'd help him pull his head out of his arse and talk to Hermione," Potter snapped.

"The Mudblo—" she began to say, but Draco elbowed her in the ribs. She'd turned to hit him back when she caught the devastatingly sad look in his eyes. "Oh, no way. No fucking . . .  _Granger_?!" When Draco nodded miserably and Potter looked like he could be sick at any moment, Pansy burst into hysterical laughter and ordered a round of champagne to celebrate.

* * *

**2005**

When Viktor Krum showed up to Draco and Hermione's wedding with a wife on his arm, Pansy had gone home with the very first wizard that smiled in her general direction.

He'd been drinking and glaring at the dance floor when Pansy walked into his line of sight. They'd not said more than two words during the night, but his thick Irish accent the morning after made her cringe and she'd stormed out of his cheap little flat and owled Blaise, suggesting a proper liaison between the pair of them. She was determined to not be miserable alone.

In a moment of weakness, Pansy had shooed Blaise off and he soon fell in love with Gabrielle Delacour, vanishing off to France at her heels. Years passed and Draco was unbearably happy with a disgustingly  _glowing_ Granger, and even Daphne had started giving birth to the next Potter spawn. Everyone was growing up, getting married, and having babies; leaving Pansy alone. They'd tried—and failed—before, suggesting setting her up with a friend of a friend. Pansy had done her best to tell them all to kindly fuck off and take their nappy-smelling rugrats somewhere else.

In an attempt to ignore the  _third_ owl that Draco's bothersome wife had sent that morning, Pansy vanished away to a little spa in Diagon Alley to get her nails done. It had been too long and she'd developed a terrible habit of biting them during sixth year that never quite went away. The shop bragged about a charm to prevent chips, even if you chewed them down to the quick.

"Such lovely hands," the manicurist lied. Pansy knew she wasn't soft like Daphne. Though it was her little secret; she'd taken the Glamour Charms learned in school and from her cousin to disguise herself so that she could join a recreational Quidditch league. The callouses on her fingers from gripping the broom felt like armour.

The witch applying her second coat of polish gasped. "Oh!"

Pansy glanced down, expecting a mistake, only to see a message written across the back of her hand.

_Meet me? One o'clock. Malfoy Manor._

Her heart briefly stopped beating and the sound of the squealing witch next to her kickstarted it back up, much to Pansy's annoyance. She glared at the woman and threw a sack of coins at the manicurist before vanishing.

She'd shown up at Draco's home two hours late. Mostly because it had taken her that long to decide to even go. Viktor Krum stood in the centre of the foyer, wearing . . . Merlin, and she thought that purebloods were formal in Britain. He looked like he'd been done up by Narcissa for whatever fanciful occasion they'd convinced him this was. He wore a heavy deep red cloak lined with fur, shined black boots, and a number of chains and trinkets and other accessories lining his outfit. He looked very official.

Officially  _what_ , she wasn't quite sure.

Pansy noticed, however, that his wedding ring was gone.

Catching her stare, he lifted his hand and cleared his throat. "The umm . . . heart sometimes is confused with soul. Want different things at wrong times."

She lifted a brow. "And this is a right time?" she asked sceptically.

"Is time to start again," he suggested with a small smile. "Clean break. New life."

Glancing to the stairs, she could see Granger trying to hide around the corner, poorly, considering her massive stomach—growing Pansy's godson—was on full display. Brightest Witch of the Age, indeed. "Meddling bitch," Pansy muttered.

Viktor cleared his throat again and stepped forward, extending his hand to her formally. "I have come to ask permission for to . . . umm . . . courting practices are different here, but Hermoninny says that—"

Pansy blinked before a smug grin crossed her face. "Hermoninny?" she repeated loudly, and heard a grumble from up the stairs. "Oh, that's fucking precious," she said excitedly. "Tell me more about  _Hermoninny_ , Mr Krum, and please, let's drop the bowing and whatnot," she said, gesturing to his posture and clothing; his arm was still extended to her.

Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked through Malfoy Manor like she owned the place, making her way down the hall to a familiar old broom cupboard. She reached in and snatched up Draco's new Firebolt 200. Turning and giving a gobsmacked Viktor a challenging look, she smirked. "Do you still play?"


	7. Stuck

**September 1984**

The first time Charlie Weasley met Nymphadora Tonks, they were eleven and in the hospital wing together due to completely different circumstances.

Charlie had gone down to visit Hagrid, having been quite taken with the man at the first sight of Fang at his side. He had followed the groundskeeper into the Forbidden Forest—which was  _quite_ forbidden—ending with him being bitten by something that Hagrid insisted was normally very tame and friendly, and if Charlie wouldn't mention the details, he'd be so very grateful.

The thing—whatever it had been—hadn't been venomous.

Nymphadora Tonks, eager to hear the tale of Charlie's brush with death, slowly made her way around the curtain surrounding her own bed, toward his. "Was it big?" she asked excitedly, in such a hurry to make it to the boy's side that she'd tripped over her own feet and slammed, chin first, onto the footboard of the bed. Her teeth made an audible click when her mouth snapped shut.

"Bloody hell," Charlie muttered, eyes wide as he jumped to the foot of the bed to peer over and down at the girl. Already, the pain in his bandaged arm was gone, and he was aching to get back to Gryffindor Tower so he could remove it and show Bill the scar. "All right there?"

The little Metamorphmagus winced, rubbed her chin, and shook her head—which was full of black hair with strange green spots going down one side—as though she could shake away the dizzy feeling that her crash had caused. "'M'fine," she mumbled.

"Good thing you're in the hospital wing already," he teased.

Nymphadora scoffed and looked up at him. "In here for something else," she said, and Charlie's gaze widened. His mouth comically fell open. One green eye, one brown, and both angled right against the inside corner, looking straight at her nose. "Got stuck."

"My mum always told me that if I made weird faces, they'd get stuck like that," he said, feeling a bit worried as he swallowed down the memories of touching his tongue to the tip of his nose while teasing his little brothers. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like to live the rest of his life with his tongue stuck like that. "Can you see?"

"Not well," Nymphadora grumbled as she stood back on her feet.

He looked at her robes, remembering that Bill told him the Hufflepuffs lived near the kitchens. "Need me to walk you back to your common room when you leave? Mum says I have to be a gentleman to girls."

Poppy Pomfrey approached Charlie Weasley's bed with potions in hand, just in time to see Nymphadora Tonks push him out of it while yelling, "Call me a girl again and see what happens!"

* * *

**September 1985**

"She's just . . . missing. How can I have misplaced a twelve-year-old girl?"

Minerva sighed irritably. "Calm down, Pomona. It happens to the best of us," she said, forcing herself not to think of four boys in particular that had been responsible for most of the grey in her otherwise inky-black hair. She'd once thought she could reach at least eighty before her age began to show, but James Potter and his marauding accompaniment had put a firm stop in those plans.

"It's never happened before," Pomona said, wringing her robes in her hands as she followed Minerva up toward Gryffindor Tower. "The only time my students are  _ever_ out past curfew, they can be found in the kitchens trying to help the house-elves." She'd already checked Ravenclaw Tower and hadn't even bothered to go to the Dungeons. Nymphadora Tonks had been in more fights with Slytherins than any other student in her year. Gryffindor Tower was the best place to find her and should have been the first place they'd looked.

The two professors made their way past the Fat Lady and into the common room, where Bill Weasley quickly jumped away from a fifth year blonde. His red hair was mussed and lips swollen. Minerva stared at the boy and sighed loudly, the noise sounding like a cat's hiss.

Bill cleared his throat and gave his Head of House an apologetic smile. "Evenin', Professor McGonagall. Professor Sprout."

"Where may we find your younger brother, Mister Weasley?" Minerva asked, lips pursed tightly.

His eyes flickered to the dorms and, before he could say a word, both witches were lifting the hems of their robes and ascending the staircase. Bill let out two loud, distinct coughs that echoed around the common room, and the other Gryffindors began making various noises, an obvious alert system that had been systematically set up.

When the second year dorm room was thrown open, Charlie Weasley was sitting on his bed, reading a copy of  _Transfiguration Monthly_. "Evenin', professors," he said with a small smile.

Minerva narrowed her eyes. "Mister Weasley, have you, by chance, seen Nymphadora Tonks this evening?"

Charlie looked the very picture of innocence as he said, "No, ma'am. Is everything all right?" He would have gotten away with it too, but Minerva had not only been dealing with his older brother for several years, she'd also been teaching at the school when Arthur and Molly had attended, and  _all_ Weasley boys had the same tell as their father: pink ears.

" _Accio_  Nymphadora!" Pomona said.

There was a loud bang followed by muttered cursing as young Nymphadora, small enough to be properly dragged out from under Charlie's bed by the spell, looked up at her Head of House and the deputy headmistress with a crooked grin. "Hi."

"This is . . . Nymphadora!" Pomona sputtered, scandalised, ignoring the way that the girl growled at the mention of her name. "What would your mothers think if—"

"It's not what it looks like!" Charlie said quickly, clearly fearing the wrath of his mum. "We just . . . she got hurt, okay, and then we . . ." he rambled and stood, lifting his trouser leg to show several small scars. "We were . . . we were just testing it."

Pomona's eyes widened and she looked back down at Tonks, who had lifted her own robes to show her scar-clad shin and knee, every mark matching the ones on Charlie's leg. "It was an accident," she said softly. "They all match up, though."

* * *

**April 1988**

If they weren't fighting—play or real—they were attached at the hip. So much so that it was a regular occurrence for Pomona to take points away from her own House when she'd find Nymphadora curled up in Charlie Weasley's bed, even as the boy slept on the floor. Minerva was much more annoyed when she had to venture down toward the kitchens to drag Charlie out of the Hufflepuff common room by his ear. Eventually, he had to be threatened with being temporarily banned from Quidditch before the two stopped sneaking out of their own common rooms. Still, they remained close; the best of friends. Always having one another's backs and always there to defend each other.

Fifth year was the worst.

"I can't believe Charlie Weasley can stand her," a fourth year Gryffindor said within hearing distance.

Tonks had turned her own hair brown to blend in as she spied on her classmates. She had been sporting a bright yellow for months now, insisting it was House pride—Charlie already had red hair, after all—but yellow was eye-catching, and she did not want to be noticed right then. Eavesdropping on the other girls wasn't the kindest thing to do, but Nymphadora had never believed that a person was entirely what their House traits consisted of. Besides, she was also  _technically_ a Black and had a mean streak that was damn near violent when she was pushed too far.

"Utterly absurd for a boy so handsome," another girl agreed. "Her hair is ridiculous, she has far too many freckles on her face, and she's as flat chested as the boys!"

Tonks looked down at her chest and scowled for a moment. She'd never thought of Charlie in any romantic light and the idea frankly disgusted her. Hell, she didn't look much at the boys her age to begin with. She snogged a few here and there but most were terrible at it, and she desperately didn't want to rely on sloppy wet kisses behind tapestries until they figured out how to do it right. Still . . . to hear from her own gender that she wasn't worthy of male attention because of features that she had the power to alter at will . . .

She met Charlie for their monthly trip to Hogsmeade and his eyes went wide, staring at her. Her hair was blond, and not a bright yellow, but a soft, natural golden colour. Her freckles were all gone and her skin tanned, eyes blue and . . . and she'd done something just hideously  _awful_ to her body.

"What're you wearing?" he asked, unable to hide the horrified look on his face as his gaze raked over the buttons on her blouse that looked ready to burst. "Make it stop."

Tonks punched him in the shoulder. "I can't, you dumb cowbag!" she snapped. "I was practising something new and now my tits are stuck like this."

Charlie laughed and Tonks's scowl deepened. "I'm sorry, Dory but . . . you look like all those other awful girls."

"Yeah, and we all know how much Weasley hates girls, don't we?"

Charlie and Tonks turned to glare at the Ravenclaw Seeker, flanked by his Housemates, sneering at Charlie. "Weasley prefers to stare at the back end of  _boys_ on brooms, don't you?"

Tonks actually growled, and Charlie grabbed her arm to stop her from attacking. "How would  _you_ know, Smith? Considering how I'm always in front of you, catching the Snitch;  _you're_ probably the one looking at  _my_ arse."

Smith stormed forward. "You take that back you little poofter!"

"Piss off, arsehole!" Charlie roared.

Two against three wasn't too bad of odds, but the Ravenclaw boys refused to hit a girl, which gave Tonks the opportunity to punch one in the face before tripping on a rock and falling to the ground where she then bit—actually bit—another's ankle until he bled. Still, despite his size and the feisty Metamorphmagus as backup, Charlie had been pummeled quite a bit. They leaned on one another as they walked to the hospital wing since Tonks's ankle was twisted round and the last time they'd tried to fix something like that on their own to avoid getting detention, she'd ended up with green toenails that had grown six inches out.

"I'm  _not_ , y'know," he muttered angrily.

"Wouldn't care if you were. You can snog all the girls or boys you want; doesn't make you any less my best friend. Or my soulmate."

Charlie sighed. "I don't want to . . . I don't want to snog  _anyone_. It just . . . it looks awful and disgusting and I don't want to do it. Ever."

"Ever?" Tonks asked, looking at him with a raised brow. "Huh. Okay."

He smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks. For the record, you can snog whoever you want to and I'll still love you."

She grinned, wincing when she put weight on the wrong ankle. "Thanks. I think I'm done with school boys, though. If anyone's going to be immature in a relationship, it'll be me. I'd rather just have fun while I still can. Don't wanna grow up too fast, right?"

Charlie laughed. "Can't imagine you ever settling down, no."

"If I do, you'll be sure to snap me out of it, right?"

* * *

**February 1992**

"Oh shit," Charlie muttered. "I am in so much trouble."

The pain was excruciating and the potions did very little to even put a dent in it. He'd only been on the dragon reserve for six months when a Chinese Fireball showed him that sneaking up on a dragon was the dumbest thing he'd ever do in his entire life. While not necessarily  _Dark_ creatures, the burn wasn't fading in the slightest, and he'd seen a pair of married wranglers that wore the same exact scar on their left hand when a Norwegian Ridgeback got the husband two years earlier.

"You'll do fine, Chuck," the man said with a laugh. "We all earn our scales eventually."

Charlie shook his head and looked at the ugly burn on his shoulder. "You don't understand. I got a girl who's gonna see this thing in the mirror eventually, and she's going to lose it."

The man chuckled. "Got yerself a soulmate, do ya, boy? Well, she'll understand. Happens to the best of us."

Groaning, Charlie brought his good hand up to his face and rubbed hard. "No, you don't get it. She saved up money for six months to get a tattoo when her mum said she couldn't. Had to pay extra for the ink that wouldn't transfer over to me. Plus, she's a Metamorphmagus, so she had to study for ways to shift without making the thing vanish permanently! Guess where she got it?"

A day later, an angry owl showed up at Charlie's bedside.

_Arsehole,_

_You owe me so much money for this. Do you know how hard it is to morph my skin twice? I have to hide the scar AND make the tattoo show back up. I lost concentration three times this morning, and Moody got in two Slicing Hexes on me. I'm gonna let that crazy old bastard carve "Stupid" on my forehead with a Blood Quill._ I  _can easily cover that up on myself, but something tells me that_ you  _can't._

_Love ya,_

_Tonks_

* * *

**July 1995**

Charlie stifled another laugh as he sat at the table watching the rest of the Order of the Phoenix fumble about with the dinner that his mother had made. Grimmauld Place was hideous and horrible but secure, and Charlie couldn't really ask for more protection for his family and friends. He'd come to help with the Triwizard Tournament, and shortly after returning the dragons to the reserve, he'd been sent an urgent message from his parents. Voldemort was back.

His job in the Order would be to remain in Romania and deal with recruiting foreign assistance for the approaching war, and Charlie was more than happy to oblige, despite the aching need to stay and keep watch over his parents, his siblings, and his soulmate.

His soulmate, who was currently staring at the werewolf next to her with stars in her eyes and a dopey look on her face, completely unaware that her elbow was in her plate of mashed potatoes.

"Dummy Dory!" Charlie whispered loudly, trying to draw her attention. When she didn't hear him—too caught up in whatever it was that Remus was saying—he began throwing peas at her. His mother thwapped him on the side of the head and glared down reproachfully, muttering under her breath about the cost of fresh vegetables these days and how little boys never grow up. Charlie took one last pea and threw it expertly at the witch, landing it  _in_  her ear.

Tonks shrieked and stood up, dumping her plate of potatoes on the floor, and accidentally knocking Remus's cup of water onto his lap. Her face turned bright red and the colour spread up her skin, penetrating the roots of her hair as she muttered apologies before  _literally_ dropping to her knees with a napkin and dabbing at the poor man's trousers. "So sorry, Remus . . . mother of . . . so clumsy . . . damnit."

Remus made a squeaking noise of discomfort, glaring down the table at Sirius, who was watching with amusement as his friend grew redder and redder from embarrassment, the more Tonks dabbed at the man's groin.

Charlie didn't care that his mother was staring at him like she was ready to go and fetch a wooden spoon from the kitchen to redden his arse with it for causing the scene. Tonks was in love, and Charlie couldn't have been more amused.

Or happy for her.

* * *

**December 1996**

"Your hair is hideous," he told her when he'd made a short trip home for Christmas. They'd written constantly as they always had done, but Tonks's letters were few and far between what with Order work, not to mention her cousin had died. It wasn't either of those things that caused her normally bright-coloured hair to look dull and lifeless.

"Git says I'm too young. Says I don't know what I want," she muttered angrily.

Charlie sighed and put an arm around her. "Want me to beat him up?"

She rolled her eyes. "He's a werewolf. They're scary strong."

He teased her with a grin and poked her in the ribs. "I'd ask how that makes the sex, but I desperately don't want to know. The thought is just . . . disgusting."

Tonks scoffed. "I'd like to point out that you once wrote me a sixteen page letter telling me, in detail, what happened when you tried to breed a Hungarian Horntail with a Common Welsh Green."

"Hey, that was scienti—"

"You drew pictures."

"It was interesting work and I'll have you know—"

"Very detailed pictures."

"Dory, I—"

"Very detailed pictures of dragon cocks."

"Oh come on!"

"Never thought I'd know what a dragon cock looked like. Didn't think I'd ever  _want_ to know that. Now I know."

"It wasn't  _that_ —"

"I should rightly tell you  _exactly_ what a werewolf cock looks like."

"Please don't."

"It's really . . . really . . . REALLY . . . amazingly . . . big."

Charlie grimaced. "For fuck's sake."

"I didn't think it'd fit but . . . damn . . . if he wasn't clever and figured out a way."

They both began to laugh then until she started to cry, and he pulled her into his arms. "Dumb wolf. Doesn't know what he's missing out on."

"Told me he loved me, y'know," she whispered. "Thinks he's being noble. Stupidly noble."

Charlie kissed the top of her head and sighed. "He'll come 'round."

* * *

**September 1997**

"You're safe, though, right?" he asked nervously as he watched her face in the green flames. "Everyone's all right on my end, but Fleur's still screeching that she'll kill every last Death Eater for ruining her wedding. It's been weeks and she's still mad."

Tonks nodded sadly. "We're fine. Remus is . . . he came back, so that's good," she said and then her skin looked a bit grey, even through the colourful fire. "Morning sickness is a bitch."

He smiled at her, glad to know that her husband had come home. Charlie hadn't heard that Remus had gone missing until long after he'd returned, which was good for the werewolf, who would have had a furious dragon tamer to tangle with. War or no war, no one broke the heart of his soulmate. "Baby's okay?"

Tonks shrugged. "Not much of a baby yet, I imagine. Little bits and pieces just growing inside. Mum's driving me 'round the bend talking about old witch tales about giving birth at home, and Dad told her that his sister had to have her cunny cut in half to get the baby out."

Charlie's eyes widened. "I don't want to share that scar with you."

Her laughter sounded like music to his ears, right up until she vomited in the fire.

* * *

**May 1998**

The last soul scar.

Charlie ran the tip of his finger over the mark on his chest where a vicious curse had taken Tonks from him. Her body in the other room bore the same one, the original, but Charlie couldn't bring himself to look at it. He'd seen too many bodies lately, and after burying his brother, he didn't think he could bury his soulmate.

So he'd offered apologies to Andromeda before rushing out of the large foyer, secluding himself in the bathroom while everyone else gave long talks about how much Remus and Nymphadora— _stop calling her that; she hates being called that_ , he thought—had meant to them.

Harry walked into the bathroom, a small bundle in his arms. "Hey."

Charlie looked away quickly. "Hey, Harry." He tried to clear his throat to hide away the thick emotions. "Pretty little witch you got yourself," he said quietly. "Mum's heartbroken. Always thought it would be Ginny."

Harry smiled sadly. "Yeah, things change. Listen umm . . . Teddy's been fussing and . . . well . . . Andromeda thought that . . . I mean, I'm his godfather and all, but—"

"I'll watch him until it's over," Charlie said, reaching out for the infant. The boy's hair was blond today, something that made Charlie smile. "She never could get rid of blond when she turned it. Always ended up stuck." He glanced up at Harry. "I've got this. Just like holding a dragon egg, right?"

The boy briefly looked concerned before he smiled awkwardly and ran a hand through his black hair. "I'll umm . . . I'll come check on you in a bit," he said before shutting the door behind him.

Charlie leaned against the far wall and lowered himself to the ground. "All right kid," he said to the baby in his arms, adjusting him into the crook of his left elbow so that he could show the right clearly. "See this?" he asked, gesturing to a triangular scar on his skin. "That's from when your mum tripped during Auror training and burned herself on a cursed walking stick. I've got another here," he said, showing his palm, "from when she grabbed the  _same_ stick to stop it from landing on her foot.

Teddy yawned.

"Was she successful, you ask?" Charlie smirked. "Well, let me kick off my right shoe and show you."


	8. Tradition

**1970**

Andromeda stared at the Hufflepuff in front of her. "Are you an idiot?"

The boy, a Muggle-born she was sure of it, was sitting on the ground with a two-tiered birthday cake—complete with seventeen lit candles—in front of him. He wore Muggle trainers, and they were two different colours, as were his socks. His shins were scarred, and she could see the hideous denim that the Muggle-borns favoured so greatly hidden beneath his robes.

He grinned up at her, tilting his head to the side like a confused animal. When his eyes sparkled, her nose twitched in irritation. "You're blocking my path," she said in a huff, adjusting her bookbag over her shoulder so that she could gesture to the corridor that led down to the dungeons.

"Have some cake with me," he said. "It's delicious. The elves let me lick the batter off the spoon."

Andromeda baulked at that. His fingers were covered in frosting that he was licking off of his skin, and not in the disgustingly suggestive way that she'd seen some of the young men at school do after dinner when the pudding magically appeared. The boy, this absolutely and utter idiot, was like a four-year-old, happily enjoying a treat with no idea that his House affiliation and blood status should have limited his ability to  _look_ in her direction, let alone  _speak_ to her.

She'd never been extreme like Bella, or followed blindly as Cissa did, but Andromeda had been raised a certain way with certain standards and certain plans in place. She was half positive that her father was arranging a betrothal this summer with the Avery boy, or perhaps that Antonin Dolohov man that had come round last Christmas and partook in a glass of brandy by the fire while she and her sisters sat with their mother, working on their charmed needlepoint.

Bella had been given to the eldest Lestrange boy the year before, right out of Hogwarts, and she'd thrown a fit—as well as Grandmother's Irma's treasured flower vase at the wall—declaring that she couldn't possibly marry Rodolphus, for she had a  _soulmate,_ and she was waiting for him. The man that Bella so greatly adored had actually stopped by the manor, only to speak on Rodolphus's behalf. Bellatrix had cried and sobbed in ways that made both Andromeda and Narcissa gasp in embarrassment; they'd been taught better than that. The tall, handsome man that sent wicked chills up Andromeda's spine—and not in the pleasant way—had lifted Bella's chin, kissed her cheek, and told her to obey him and marry the man he'd chosen for her.

"Cake?"

Pulled from her thoughts, Andromeda pursed her lips at the boy. "If you'll excuse me," she said curtly and then tried to step around him. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the stones, and she was almost around the corner when she heard him call after her.

"I thought you liked chocolate, Andy."

 _Andy_.

Andromeda turned and stared back at him, eyes wide. "How do you . . . only my friends call me that!"

He smiled sweetly at her. "I'd like to be your friend."

Her gaze softened at the way he smiled at her, but she reined herself back in quickly. "You know nothing about me."

He stood and walked toward her; she was gobsmacked for a moment, surprised by his height. He was lanky and tall and, despite having a somewhat athletic build, she thought he would look quite ridiculous on a broom. "I know you."

She stiffened. "You most certainly do not."

"I know that you thank the house-elves when they make your favourites, and you're polite to everyone despite what House they belong to—"

"Unless they take up the entire corridor eating cake like some ridiculous—"

"And your eyes twinkle when you're mad," he said with a crooked grin, "but they look prettiest when you smile."

Her breath caught and, she angrily forced herself to breathe again. "I should tell you,  _sir_ , I am hardly the type of girl to just—"

"Did you take it for someone else?" he asked her, his smile fading. "The curse."

She felt a sick cold wash over her skin. "What did you say?"

He reached a hand out to her arm, his fingers stopping just an inch away. He turned his gaze to her face, as though waiting for permission to touch her. She didn't move, eyes still wide. Curiosity got the better of her, and she gave him a slight nod of the head. He pushed the sleeve of her robe up, revealing the small inch-long scar just below her elbow. It stood out against otherwise perfect alabaster skin, reddish-purple and completely permanent. Bella's  _fancy gentleman_  had given her a bridal gift after she'd acquiesced to his desires: a long, silver knife with a curved handle. Angry over something, Bella had taken the blade, "jokingly" threatening Sirius with it when Walburga had brought the boys over for a family dinner. He wasn't even old enough to attend Hogwarts yet, but he had rolled his eyes disrespectfully at something Bella had said and she'd gone for the dagger. Instinctively, Andromeda had jumped in the way and ended up pierced by the cursed blade in defence of her young cousin.

Sirius had screamed, and Regulus had cried when Andromeda began bleeding. Cissa sat completely still as though she were waiting for Bellatrix to turn on  _her_ next. No one else moved a muscle or said a word other than her mother who tsked and said, "Shame. You were nearly perfect" in regards to the new scar on her arm.

Andromeda hadn't told a soul about how the mark got there or that it was cursed. Those who understood didn't need to ask. Those who  _didn't_ understand still knew better than to bring it up.

Except this boy.

And she was positively terrified to know why.

When he ran the pad of his thumb over the mark, Andromeda swallowed hard. When he reached a hand to pull the sleeve of his  _own_ robe up, she spun on her heel and ran away from him as swiftly as her feet would carry her.

* * *

"I think she lied," Andromeda said softly as she sat in the common room, plaiting Narcissa's silky blond hair. She'd long gotten over her jealousy over her sister's uncommon beauty, instead choosing to lavish affection upon the girl in quite the opposite of the sisterly bond she shared with their older sister.

"Who?"

"Bella. I think she lied about that man . . . the one she says is her soulmate."

Narcissa turned and stared at her, blue eyes wide. "It's sacred," she said in a hushed whisper. "Mother says that our soulmates are the other halves of who we are. We're to keep ourselves delicate and perfect, so as not to scar them. I don't know why Bella's soulmate wanted her to marry Rodolphus, but mother says that she's right to obey him." Her eyes flickered down to the mark on Andromeda's arm. "Do you know who yours is?"

Andromeda sighed. "No, I'm just . . . I know he told her to, but why would she marry Rodolphus if she—"

Narcissa stood up and turned around. "Andy . . . do you know who your soulmate is? Is it because of the scar? Is he very handsome?" she asked, looking suddenly excited. "Is it Avery?"

Looking down, Andromeda shook her head, sighing. Narcissa couldn't understand. She already had her entire future planned out for her with a list of names pulled out of an astronomy book to match with her dreams of perfect, little blond babies. "What if . . . what if it's someone else? Someone other than who father is speaking with? Maybe it's someone . . . different. For all we know, it could be some Muggle-b—"

Throwing a slender hand over her mouth, Narcissa gasped. "Do you know what father would do if he heard you say such things?! Are you mad?! You know just as well as I that Muggle-borns can't have soulmates. They don't even have real magic. Stolen, Bella says. Did someone . . . did some Mudblood—"

"Language," Andromeda said reproachfully.

" _Bella_  says it."

"I don't care. It's crass."

Narcissa huffed, clearly annoyed with being told what to do. "Did some  _Muggle-born_  try to convince you that he was your soulmate? That's horrendously offensive . . . they don't even understand. How  _could_ they? You didn't believe—"

"Nothing happened, Cissa. Go to bed."

* * *

"A watch," Andromeda said as she approached the boy in the library.

He looked up at her and smiled, his eyes lighting up at the very sight of her. It made something liquid burn in her belly like tea swallowed too quickly. "What?"

She cleared her throat. "Seventeen candles. I assume that was your own birthday you were celebrating. A watch is the traditional gift that parents give when their children come of age."

He sat back in his chair and observed her. "My parents wouldn't know that tradition, I'm afraid."

 _I'm afraid too_ , Andromeda thought.

Her fingers twisted in the pocket of her robes. "I thought as much," she said, feeling her face flush as she placed the pocket watch she'd purchased in Hogsmeade on the table in front of him. She cleared her throat again when he just stared at it, and then she mumbled, "Every wizard needs a watch. It's tradition. Tradition is important."

He beamed up at her, palming the watch. "It's Muggle tradition to offer thanks of sorts to pretty girls who give out birthday presents," he said. "Go to Hogsmeade with me?"

"I . . . I can't."

He sighed. "But it's tradition."

Her eyes narrowed. "It's also tradition that pureblood girls not speak to Muggle-borns! Or Slytherins to Hufflepuffs or—"

"Can I kiss you?"

She stumbled over her words. "W-What? Are you . . . how d-dare . . . were you . . ."

She'd meant to step backward and run away, but she'd shocked herself by moving forward, and then he was just . . .  _kissing_ her and it was positively the most terrifying thing she'd ever experienced. Tears sprung to her eyes immediately, and her heart thudded in her chest at such a rapid speed she was certain she'd die before she had a chance to catch her next breath.

When he finally pulled away, she choked on a sob that escaped her lips. He was frowning down at her, looking guilty. "I'm sorry, I thought . . . I mean you moved, and I assumed. Shit, I shouldn't have assumed. Andromeda, please forgive—"

Throwing herself at him, she cried against his lips and kissed him hard as tears ran down her cheeks. He laughed and kissed her back until his hands were buried in her thick dark locks. When she pulled away that time, she still looked miserable. "Idiot," she said. "I was crying because . . . we can never do this again."

He looked absolutely crushed. "But . . . my arm. I have that scar. I know what it means, I asked my pureblood friends, and they said—"

Andromeda shook her head. "You don't understand. And I don't even know your—"

"Edward," he blurted out. "Call me Ted, or Teddy even," he said with that same crooked smile. "Call me anything you want as long as I can call you my—"

"You can't," she whispered. "You . . . you can't."

* * *

**1971**

Shortly after graduating from Hogwarts, she'd been betrothed to Antonin Dolohov just as she'd once thought was possible. He put a ring on her finger, and the families celebrated while Andromeda politely refused any wine, terrified of mixing it with the nerves and dread that had settled in the pit of her stomach. The wedding was set for Christmas, and she'd gone to Diagon Alley to look at dresses because her mother was currently boycotting their favourite shop in Paris since the seamstress had double-charged for imported silk.

Ted Tonks walked past the window of Madam Malkin's, and she didn't know what overcame her or what suddenly filled her with that silly courage that the Gryffindors were always going on and on about, but Andromeda ran out the front door and chased him down in the streets, leaving Narcissa back in the dressing room of the shop.

He had smiled at her and it lit her up inside, washing away the fear that came with the thought of marrying Antonin, and suddenly she was removing the ring.

Her father had backhanded her when she'd gone home.

He didn't know  _what_ she'd done other than take the ring off, but Antonin had charmed the jewel to know when it was removed and had owled Cygnus the moment that it had happened, wanting to know what kind of games the House of Black was playing. Andromeda had fallen to the ground from the strength of the blow, scraping her hands against the rough stone that surrounded the fireplace. She stared down at the marks on her palms, terrified that Ted would see them on his own hands and come running to save her. She didn't need saving, though. She'd already saved herself.

"I'm sorry, father," she lied. "I didn't mean to dishonour you and our house."

"You'll stay here," Cygnus said disdainfully, "while your mother and I go and visit Antonin and repair the damage that you've done."

She'd sent Ted an owl the moment her parents vanished, and he'd Floo'd over thirty seconds after the bird landed on the windowsill of his flat.

"Your house might be haunted," Ted told her as they quickly began packing as much as possible. "And not in the fun way that Hogwarts is. The Muggle way."

Andromeda laughed, surprising herself by the sound of it. She looked up at him and kissed him hard before pulling away. "We have to hurry."

Ted frowned at the bruise already forming on her cheek. "If your father walked in that door right now—" he began angrily.

"He'd kill you," she said. "Instantly. Let's spend the rest of our lives getting our revenge."

He grinned. "Lots of half-blood babies?"

She smiled brightly at him, her heart filling up with excitement and wonder. "I think at least one ought to do the trick."

* * *

**1973**

"She's going to hate us," Ted said, laughing affectionately as Andromeda put the final touches of the calligraphed name on the wall behind the crib. "You purebloods have the most . . .  _unique_ names," he said affectionately and then ducked when his very pregnant wife threw the paint brush at his head.

* * *

**1998**

She watched her daughter paint over the old, peeled wall that was once her nursery. She'd long since charmed the walls from pastel pink to bright yellow when she'd gone to Hogwarts, but now they were light blue because Nymphadora and Remus had decided to find a neutral, non-House colour for the baby's room.

Andromeda took a moment out of every hour of every day that Ted was gone to look at her naked body in the mirror, thoroughly examining every bit she could see. She searched for scars, blemishes, any hint that something had happened to him while he was away from her—on the run with other Muggle-borns. Hiding from the Ministry because the Ministry was Voldemort's and Voldemort wanted the Mudbloods captured.

She didn't sleep much during the war.

When Nymphadora was sleeping and Remus was quietly curled up beside her on the sofa, Andromeda locked herself in her bedroom, hidden behind Silencing Charms, and she prayed to any and every deity she could think of to please keep Ted safe and return him home to her alive and whole.

She'd never been the type of woman who prayed.

Maybe that's why no one answered her.


	9. Stars

**1972**

She'd known it was coming.

Still, Narcissa stared at her left forearm and watched as the snake and skull appeared like a flash of light only to begin fading quite quickly thereafter. She rubbed gently at the skin as though she could send the gesture of comfort through her arm and into Lucius's. It wouldn't stay with her forever, like other types of scars and marks inflicted by Dark Magic. The Dark Lord had constructed it carefully, and only those who had earned a place in his circle would be honoured with the mark forever. Lucius had told her that it wouldn't hurt him to be marked, and that he would be perfectly fine. One of the Dark Lord's elite thanks to his name and family and wealth and prestige; all the same things that made him looked perfect on their betrothal contract that had been signed that week.

That, and the fact that they'd known they were soulmates since she was thirteen and he'd been in a small accident in Care of Magical Creatures with a chimaera that Professor Kettleburn had brought in from a Wizarding community outside of Thebes. Neither mark had taken long to fade thanks to the magic of soul scars and Madam Pomfrey's quick acting. Lucius had woken up in the hospital wing with the taste of Sleeping Draught on his tongue and the vision of a blond witch at his bedside, and they both just  _knew_ they belonged together.

The Dark Mark was gone now, but Narcissa couldn't find it in herself to breathe.

Lucius said he would be fine, but Bella had taken Narcissa aside and told her that when Rodolphus had been branded a Death Eater, he'd pissed on the floor. Rabastan had thrown up, Macnair had convulsed and cracked his head on the stone ground, and Mulciber had begged the Dark Lord to stop and yanked his arm back, only to have to start all over from the beginning.

Narcissa waited an hour before contacting Lucius, just in case. She didn't want to embarrass him.

_Lucius?_

It was almost twenty minutes before the inky reply appeared on her hand.

_Hello, my love._

She exhaled, trying to control the way that her breath shook at the sight of his uneven words. His penmanship was normally flawless. She didn't want to know why his hand was clearly shaking.

_Are you all right?_

The answer came swiftly.

_As long as I have you._

Blinking tears away, she breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.

_Can I see you?_

_Soon, Cissa. Soon._

_Tomorrow?_

_In a few days._

_Lucius, I love you._

She bit her lip, waiting again for him to write back. When he did, her blue eyes lit up as they always did when he told her:

_I love you. More than all the stars._

* * *

**1974**

The photographer was too much, she decided. The little minion that worked for the  _Daily Prophet_  had been taking photos while kneeling, his camera aimed  _up_ at her. The angle was all wrong, and she would have the man's head if the spread in the paper didn't make her look anything but perfection.

And she  _was_ perfection.

"Not like those no good sisters of yours," her father had said while walking her down the aisle.

Narcissa was perfect. Not like Bellatrix, who hadn't shown up to the wedding because she was currently being hunted by Aurors, suspected for torturing a Muggle-born who'd been thrown through the front window of the building that disguised St. Mungo's. The word "dirty" had been carved into his chest with what Narcissa assumed was a very familiar, cursed dagger. Bella wasn't fulfilling her duties to her husband or to her House, and their mother had been overheard whispering concerns that perhaps dabbling in too Dark of magic may have caused her to be barren.

 _Perfect Narcissa_ would have the obligation now, of carrying on the blood of the Ancient and Noble House of Black—as well as the Malfoy heir—because, despite being obviously fertile, Andromeda had shamed the family by bringing a half-blood into the world.

Narcissa had seen the little girl, only once, in Diagon Alley while shopping for a new dress. The baby had dark hair like Andy, but it looked like it shifted to a lighter colour in the sunlight, resembling the father—Andromeda's husband. Andy had looked happy.  _Abundantly_ happy. She wore the same smile that Narcissa had seen in the mirror whenever Lucius dropped her back at home after a lovely night out to dinner or to a play. Andy was  _happy_.

It was confusing.

"Soulmate Magic, the most sacred and pure magic that exists," the Ministry official said with a beaming smile as Lucius took Narcissa's hand within his own and squeezed it gently, running his thumb over her knuckles.

His long, silvery hair had been pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck with a black leather band. Her toes wiggled in her shoes, the only visible way she could fidget without getting a stern look from her mother. She was desperate to free his hair from the band and run her fingers through it. He looked so very lovely in his dress robes. It would be a shame to tear them.

But she'd made a vow to do just that.

Her mother would be horrified.

The thought made her grin and she almost missed her cue, "I do."

* * *

**1979**

"Do you think that Andromeda was right?" Regulus asked her the summer after he'd taken the Dark Mark. At the manor, he was free to remove his robes, not needing to hide who he was or who he served. It wasn't the Dark Mark that she was looking at though, but a cursed scar on the back of his neck.

"That's not yours," she said, observing the scar.

"Wrong side," he replied, but she couldn't tell whether he was talking about his soulmate, or himself.

"Andromeda abandoned her family and her values and everything that—"

"So did Sirius."

She sighed irritably. "Yes, and that is why—"

"He's still my brother. She's still your sister, and what if she was right? If that Muggle-born was really her—"

"I don't wish to speak of this, Regulus." She swallowed hard. "Now, tell me about your soulmate."

He shook his head and stood up. "Give my regrets to your husband that I was unable to say hello."

"Reg—"

* * *

**June 1980**

War was hard and stressful and made her ever so afraid. Not that she'd show it. The Dark Lord was growing bolder, and Dumbledore was eager to show his hand. The streets of Wizarding Britain were littered with evidence that this was no small scuffle between two parties. This was a way of life they were trying to protect.

Narcissa understood, to a degree. She was, after all, protecting a life of her own.

"Late night?" she whispered as she heard footsteps approach the door.

Lucius sighed. "He's angry. And paranoid. I put this all on Severus's shoulders, damn him. Wretched prophecy. As though a mere  _child_ could overthrow the most powerful wizard ever born."

"Did anyone die tonight?"

He sighed. "Not at  _my_ hand."

She waited a beat. "Children?"

"Never," he insisted firmly. "I have my . . . there are lines."

"That you  _would_ cross, were he to ask."

He didn't reply. Instead, Lucius wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his nose in the crook of her neck, pressing lips to her skin just to feel her warmth and softness. "I love you, beautiful witch."

She smiled and closed her eyes, leaning back against him. "I love you as well."

"More than all the stars?" he asked.

Narcissa chuckled and pulled away from him, leaning forward over the edge of the crib to run her fingers through Draco's soft, white strands. " _Almost_  all the stars," she said, looking back over her shoulder with a small grin.

* * *

**November 1981**

"Thank Merlin and Circe and Salazar!" Narcissa exclaimed the moment they came through the Floo.

Lucius had been arrested and taken to the Ministry, and people were screaming "Azkaban!" as she was led to a room to wait to see her husband. The Dark Lord was gone ,and the Potters were dead, and everyone was celebrating except for the families left to wonder how far Dumbledore's influence reached. Surely not further than Malfoy vaults.

Narcissa had spent hours waiting and waiting and keeping her composure as Aurors dragged other suspected Death Eaters past her. Some shouted out for her, asking for help. "Narcissa! Where's Lucius?! Have him tell them! I'd nothing to do with it!"

"I've no idea who that was," she'd said softly, primly sipping the cup of tea that someone had brought her while she waited. Mostly because she refused to leave until she'd seen Lucius, and the reporters already flooding the Ministry would have a field day if a high society witch was seen being dragged around by Aurors.

She remained calm and collected until they were finally alone, free in the privacy of Malfoy Manor, where she launched herself into Lucius's arms. "I wouldn't be able to do it without you," she said, trying to hold back tears. "What if they'd taken you to Azkaban? How could I go on?"

He wiped away her tears with the pads of his thumbs, cradling her head in his hands. "Never," he whispered. "The Dark Lord is gone and I am slave to no one but you."

* * *

**June 1985**

"Did you see?" Lucius said with a small chuckle at the dinner table. "Draco, show your mother."

Draco proudly pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a strange little mark that looked like a red dot, surrounded by a circle dead centre on his arm. "It's my soul scar," he said proudly, sitting up a little taller. "She's  _real_."

Narcissa beamed. "Of course she is, my dragon."

Lucius was grinning, amused by the way that Draco—even at such a young age—was grinning smugly at the mere thought of being special enough to have a soulmate. Narcissa hadn't told either of them about the small scars she'd seen over the years that didn't fade away fast enough. Whoever the girl was, her parents were either incredibly neglectful as to leave their child with a mark instead of charming it away quickly, or they were . . .

She thought of Andromeda's troubling questions about Muggle-borns and Regulus's anxious queries about the same subject. It wasn't possible though, she told herself over and over again.

* * *

**June 1996**

"Tippy," she called for her elf, "I need you to charm these marks for me. Make them stay until I tell you otherwise." The elf hesitated at first, but remained silent as she followed her orders, charming the various scars on Narcissa's body to remain in place. Some looked quite vicious and horrible, but they were not hers.

"Mistress?"

"Yes," Narcissa said. "That one as well."

The elf swallowed hard and nodded, charming the Azkaban brand across the pale skin of her Mistress.

She'd been charming them herself for weeks now, but the magic faded. Elf magic was inherently stronger, and she was going to take advantage of it. Lucius was gone, taken,  _stolen_ from her, and she would be damned if she forgot where he was for one second of any day. Her face was perfect, but she could see a small scar peeking out from beneath her collar. She wondered which of the Aurors had given it to him and could feel her blood boiling at the thought of sweet vengeance.

She couldn't act now. She had guests to entertain and a new Lord of the Manor to keep happy. Thankfully, he did not appear the type to favour women like her; or women; or . . . people in general. Narcissa had to do her best not to scowl at her elder sister most evenings when they all dined together. Bella had proclaimed the Dark Lord her soulmate when she was still at Hogwarts. As far as Narcissa could tell, the only  _thing_ that man shared a soul with was the snake he whispered to at the table.

 _Her_ table.

Her dining room table that the beast crawled across, feasting on Muggles and Muggle-borns and sympathisers and—

"Mother?"

She turned around, bringing a hand to her throat to hide the mark before Draco could see it. "Yes, sweetheart?"

He was taller than she was now, nearly a man. A man with a brand on his own arm that made her sick to look at. She'd waited with him, held his hand through the pain and watched his skin, eager to see if his soulmate—wherever she was—would send him a message of comfort, of hope, of love. It never came.

"I thought I'd escort you down to dinner," he said and held out an arm for her.

She smiled sweetly. Her little prince. As perfect as all the stars in the sky. "I will, but only if you tuck in your shirt, you slovenly boy," she said teasingly and reached for the corner of his pressed white shirt that had come untucked.

He flinched away from her, eyes wide.

Her gaze narrowed. "Did . . . did something happen?" she demanded and grabbed the fabric before he could get away from her. The Aurors had taken Lucius, and the Dark Lord had branded her son, but she could feel her nerves begin to unravel at the thought of someone harming him in her own home. If Bellatrix had touched him, Narcissa would murder her own sister in her sleep!

"It's nothing!" he shouted just as she saw the ugly, Dark scar that began at the bottom of his ribs and went up.

"Who did it?" she asked, her eyes filled with rage and fury and sixteen years of protective instincts all coming out at once.

"It's not  _mine_!"

Mother and son stared at one another, neither speaking. Neither wanting to ask the questions that likely  _needed_ to be asked. Questions that Andromeda had asked, that Regulus had asked . . . questions that Narcissa had never needed to ask because Lucius was . . . was as perfect and pure as the stars in the sky.

* * *

**2005**

An adjustment period had been needed of course.

Hermione Granger had opinions and Lucius lacked the ability to keep his to himself.

 _House-elf rights. Honestly_.

But there had been a glamorous wedding, and Draco was happy—truly happy—and he could run into the sunset with his Muggle-born wife and shovel manure out of hippogriff stalls for all Narcissa cared, so long as he kept smiling that way and kept the life back in his eyes.

And as long as the hippogriff stalls were close, because she refused to let her grandbaby leave the country.

"Be nice," she whispered to Lucius.

"I'm  _always_ nice," he said with a scowl, and she had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from laughing at his adorable pout. Handsome and wonderful and perfect as ever, but such a grumpy old man he was turning into. She positively adored it.

"She's agreed to Scorpius," Draco said proudly.

Narcissa clapped her hands, excited that her family's traditions would be carried on. "Oh, how lovely!"

Lucius scoffed, too old and too irritable to play at being composed most days. "And what, pray tell,  _Hermione_ , did my son have to concede to gain your approval for such a name?"

The Muggle-born girl grinned across the table. "Harry Potter will be his godfather."

"I'm sure Scorpius will be well looked after by such a large family," Narcissa said, pinching Lucius's side to stop him from commenting further when he opened his mouth to speak. He'd made a small noise in the back of his throat and captured her hand. Hermione appeared to relax a little, which made everyone happier, and Narcissa's smile softened when she could feel Lucius drawing stars on her palm with his finger under the table.


	10. Itch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually my favourite thing I've ever written. ♥

**May 1998**

_Bastard_.

She stared at herself in the full-length mirror that she'd asked to be placed in her room years ago. It was necessary to make certain that every bit of her was covered at all times. The last thing she needed was for a student to see one of her scars. Some were easily explained—she'd been teaching children for a great many years now and was quite adept at constructing lies out of necessity. There were some things, however, that children didn't need to know—not that her opinions were shared by Albus, who had smiled at her request for the mirror as though she were an adorable teenage witch, wanting the thing so that she could primp in front of it before a date.

He'd known perfectly well why she had requested the blasted thing.

But she didn't need it now.

" _Reducto_ ," she whispered and then held up her hand, creating a wandless shield around herself. The shattered glass bounced off of the magic, her reflection falling to the ground in a thousand pieces.

"Missy Kitty gets bad luck," Winky said nervously from the corner of the room where she was setting up a small tea tray for the new Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Minerva smiled at the elf and then at the shattered mirror. "Actually, my bad luck has finally run out."

* * *

**1940**

"What's  _that_ , Mum?" Minerva asked as she stood beside her mother at the kitchen counter, a small step stool beneath her feet so that she could reach properly. She'd watched her mother peel potatoes her whole life and had never noticed the small scar on her thumb before. "Did you hurt yourself?"

Isobel swallowed hard. "It's . . . I'm fine, love. Finish washing the carrots."

Minerva frowned and let out a sigh of frustration. She hated not knowing things and had always been smart enough to know when adults were concealing information because she was too young. She hated when people spoke to her as though she couldn't understand when, in fact, she was quite adept at questioning thoughts and challenging ideas. It was why her father had asked her to just smile and nod her head when people from his congregation spoke to her.

"It's not mine," Isobel muttered in an attempt to appease her curious daughter. "It belongs to someone that once belonged to me. Someone magical. An old . . . friend who was a part of my life. You'll learn about it when you go to Hogwarts."

Minerva's eyes widened with delight. She rarely was allowed to talk about Hogwarts. It upset her father and he'd give her mother a strange look before frowning sadly and locking himself in his office. Her mum always said he just wanted extra time with God because he was confused about magic. Minerva had once tried to unconfuse her father by telling him that she could try and send an owl to God, since she'd never received a reply back from him when she prayed the way she'd been taught. Her father hadn't liked that idea very much, but he'd been kind enough with how he'd handled her suggestion, telling her that God didn't make owls to carry letters, that wizards did, and Minerva should go and help her mother weed the garden.

"Can't you tell me now?" Minerva pleaded with her mother.

Isobel looked out the window where her husband was teaching Malcolm how to properly chop wood for the fire. With Robert properly distracted, Isobel helped Minerva down from the stool, wiping her hands on a nearby tea towel. "Every witch or wizard in the world has someone called a soulmate. Someone that magic has deemed perfect just for them. Or at least . . . that's what my mother told me. She was a pureblood, you see, like I am, and traditions are . . . well, they can be very strange sometimes."

"Will I have one?" Minerva asked. "I'm just half."

Isobel smiled. "Of course, my love."

"Isn't Dad perfect for you?"

Frowning, Isobel shook her head. "Hearts and souls are different. I love your father, but I didn't love my soulmate. Arcturus was . . . his family was difficult. Some families don't take kindly to Muggles. It's why we must keep magic secret from them. Sometimes . . . sometimes magic makes mistakes. My soulmate didn't like that I wanted to leave the Wizarding world. He wasn't very kind to me when I married your father."

"Like your mum?"

Isobel nodded. "Yes, like my mum. She wasn't happy either."

"Are  _you_ happy?"

Caught off guard by the question, Isobel's eyes flickered briefly to her wand that remained in a long box, locked up on a high shelf above all their books. She hadn't touched it since Bobby was born. The baby had come early, and Robert had taken the children into town for ice cream to get them out of their mother's hair. She'd given birth on the bedroom floor, and the baby hadn't been breathing. Panicked, Isobel had wandlessly summoned the bit of hawthorn that she'd gotten when she'd turned eleven and spelled the baby's lungs clear of the fluid that he'd breathed in. That had been six months ago, and she'd never told a soul other than her daughter, who—from time to time—climbed the bookshelves to stare at the wand enviously, and had noticed that the dust patterns had changed.

When her mother didn't answer, Minerva rephrased the question. "Would you be happier if you had your soulmate? Maybe he could convince Dad to let you use your magic."

* * *

**1947**

Minerva had known she'd had a soulmate for many years. At least a year before she'd even known what a soulmate was. Small scars had appeared all over her body at a young age but vanished before she had a chance to show her parents, or wonder where they came from. It wasn't always the way it happened, her mother had told her, but there was a strong chance that her soulmate would be waiting for her at Hogwarts.

Minerva desperately hoped that he liked Quidditch.

She didn't think that someone who was  _her_ soulmate wouldn't enjoy flying.

"Do you think he's very handsome?" Myriam Prewett asked when all the girls in their dormitory gathered together to discuss their futures.

Rolling her eyes, Minerva answered, "I don't care what he looks like, so long as he has a brain bigger than a nogtail's. As pretty as boys are to look upon, I do enjoy a good conversation." She thought of her parents, who rarely talked to one another when it wasn't about their children. She wondered if her mother's soulmate would have made her smile.

"We should all try it," Augusta Fawley suggested. "Let's all write a message to our soulmates and see if they write back."

Minerva blinked. Her mother hadn't told her about that trick.

They all scrambled for their quills and began writing on the skin of their arms. Emily Vane burst into tears when another  _girl_ wrote back.

"Soulmates don't always mean your future husband," Minerva said coldly, embarrassed over the dramatic behaviour of her roommate, though secretly, she hoped that her own would be a boy. A  _smart_ boy, a  _talented_ boy, who was kind and good and magically strong. Someone who would be her equal and not forbid her from using magic.

And perhaps . . . perhaps he could be a little handsome.

"Mine's writing back!" Melinda Edgecombe squealed. "Should I tell him who I am? Oh, I'm going to have fun with this. My own little secret!"

Not wanting to beat around the bush and play ridiculous games of hide and seek with her soulmate like some of the girls were doing, Minerva decided to be bold and write a simple introduction to whoever it was that magic had chosen for her.

_My name is Minerva McGonagall._

It took several minutes, but right there, on the skin of her arm in tidy penmanship, her soulmate wrote back.

_Hello, Minerva McGonagall. My name is Tom Riddle._

* * *

He was several years older than she was, a Slytherin, and Head Boy. She knew who he was.  _Everyone_ knew who Tom Riddle was. He was a smart boy, a talented boy, who was cunning and charming and magically strong.

And he was perhaps . . . perhaps just a little handsome.

But he was not good, nor kind.

His friends were cruel, and though he reprimanded their behaviour when professors were watching, Minerva noticed that he did very little to stop the oafs when only  _her_ eyes were on the Slytherin table. She watched Tom Riddle quite often, trying to remember what her mother had once told her about soulmates.

" _Sometimes magic makes mistakes."_

When Tom graduated, he wrote her a letter, asking if she would mind if he corresponded with her from time to time. She agreed, if only to get to know him better but frowned when his letters asked detailed questions about Hogwarts, about her friends, and about the pureblood families he left behind in Slytherin. He asked about Professor Dumbledore's day to day activities and schedule, and asked if she would look in on Headmaster Dippet and send him Tom's friendly regards and watch how the man reacted. Minerva gave him nothing but useless information, smart enough to know when she was being used. She wrote back, asking him about his life and his family and then told him about hers. Instead of sending an owl, he wrote a message that appeared on her arm in the middle of Transfiguration.

_Your mother should not have married a Muggle._

* * *

"Professor Dumbledore, sir?"

"Yes, Miss McGonagall? How can I help you?"

Minerva cleared her throat, using every bit of her willpower not to cry. "I umm . . . I need some help transfiguring my . . . my skin."

The older wizard frowned at the expression she wore on her face. His eyes didn't twinkle like they normally did. "Your  _skin_ , my dear?"

She pulled back the sleeve of her arm, showing him the message. It had been sent in ink but would not vanish no matter what she tried. When she attempted to charm it away, it had come back, this time scratched viciously into her skin like a scar. A scar that  _stayed_ there. Tom's usually beautiful penmanship was ugly and . . . and angry.

Dumbledore frowned. "Minerva, I feel it is very important that I ask you . . . do you know the identity of your soulmate?"

With tears in her eyes that she tried to blink away, she nodded. "Please, sir. Can you make it go away?"

He sighed. "I will teach you how."

He'd shown her the charm to vanish the marks, and she'd smiled with the greatest relief. She wouldn't admit such a thing to her Head of House, but she'd actually been quite afraid to return home to her parents with those words written on her skin. Her mother would have cried, and her Muggle father would have refused to allow her to return to Hogwarts. She sometimes had nightmares that he'd taken  _her_ wand away too.

Dumbledore smiled proudly at her, telling her how very talented she was at Transfiguration. "I have a project I'd like you to think about, Miss McGonagall," he said with a twinkle back in his eyes. "How would you like to become an Animagus?"

Her eyes lit up with intrigue and delight. "Could I really?"

He grinned. "Absolutely. It's not up to you, of course, but what kind of animal do you see yourself as?"

She stared down at her arm, skin clear once again and there was a flash of something powerful and perhaps a little dangerous in her gaze. "Something that can kill a snake."

* * *

**1953**

She flew so very high, the wind stinging her skin as she fought to deter the Slytherin Seeker. She was a Chaser herself, and Captain of her team, but a foul unseen by the referee had left the Gryffindor Seeker injured on the ground and their backup had become deathly ill the day before the game. They were up enough points that as long as her team could score a few more goals before Slytherin caught the Snitch, they'd still win, which was why she was doing her best to knock the sneaky little snake off course.

The Seeker twisted in the air when a flash of gold flew between them in the opposite direction, and Minerva turned her broom around, aiming it right after the Slytherin. She was close, so very close to being able to edge him to the side when something, like lightning, struck the end of her broom, rattling her own trajectory and snapping the wood in half midair.

As she fell, eyes wide, she briefly thought about shifting into her Animagus form.  _Cats always land on their feet right?_ she thought as the ground rapidly grew closer. Could she safely shift over sixty feet in the air?

No.

Like a pull to her magic that felt like a nasty itch inside of her, Minerva looked to the Slytherin stands as she continued falling, and she could swear that she saw him.  _Tom_. He was smiling. She could almost feel the claws of her Animagus form pushing their way out the tips of her fingers in a rage. Before she fully collided with the ground, there was a soft pull of magic, slowing her descent, but not enough to prevent injury.

When she woke in the hospital wing with a concussion and several broken ribs, there was a vase of flowers next to the bed. Confused, she winced as she reached for the card next to them and frowned at the familiar script.

_I could teach you to fly without a broom._

* * *

**1956**

Despite falling in love with Dougal—a Muggle, just like her mother had done—she couldn't bring herself to settle down and marry the man. He'd make her put her wand away, certainly he would, and Minerva couldn't bear the thought of it. Not only did she know that she couldn't live without magic, but she'd been offered a position within the D.M.L.E. Tom Riddle, she was certain, was up to something, and she was bound and determined to find out what it was. Being trained by Aurors would help her. Unfortunately, Tom had all but vanished from the face of the earth, nowhere to be seen. Every now and then, she thought about writing to him, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. Whatever he was doing, she didn't trust him. Marks appeared on her body from time to time: Dark scars from duells and burn marks from cursed items. She couldn't very well prove it, but she felt like there was something Dark inside of her; there were scars inside of her soul that she couldn't pinpoint or vanish away.

It kept her awake at night.

When Albus Dumbledore, now Headmaster of Hogwarts, sent her an owl telling her that Tom had resurfaced—at the school of all places, asking to teach the students there—she'd panicked. Writing back, she told her mentor to  _not_ reconsider his decision in rejecting the request. Tom could not teach students. She feared especially for the Muggle-borns. Dumbledore had written back, and she could almost see the smile in his words there on the parchment.

_Minerva, I'd be pleased if you would come to Hogwarts instead._

She didn't teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, but Transfiguration was a perfect fit.

* * *

**November 1981**

Gone. He was  _gone_.

She cried tears of joy for herself and the world, and tears of sadness for little Harry Potter, who'd lost everything. She stared at Albus, silently questioning the man as he placed the baby on the doorstep of the awful Muggles that she'd been observing all day long. The mark on the boy's head had drawn her attention, and Albus made some nonsensical comment about scars coming in handy. She tried not to look bitter as she mentally calculated the number of permanent marks on her own body that Tom Riddle had given her through their unwanted connection.

With Harry Potter taken care of and the world repairing itself, Minerva walked into the Ministry of Magic—soulmate free—and marched her way right up to an old suitor's desk. The man blushed furiously and swallowed hard as she sternly lifted her chin.

"Elphinstone Urquart, I'll take that date now, thank you."

* * *

**August 1991**

Her husband had brought a light into her life for the few years she had him before he died. The scars on her body caused by whatever Dark Magic Tom had played with were still there, but she'd rarely felt them. As the years passed by, however, the ones deep down itched from time to time and she felt sick to her stomach when she wondered what they were. No scan at St. Mungo's could find anything, nor could any charm that Dumbledore cast on her. Steadily, however, she could feel it coming. Something . . . something awful.

"It shouldn't be here," Minerva said after the staff meeting was let out. Hagrid had been sent to fetch Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and Albus had set off the rest of the staff to prepare security for the ridiculous thing. "The bank is more than equipt—"

"Hogwarts is the safest place—"

"Hogwash!" she snapped at him. "Harry Potter comes to school this year and you want to bring something like . . . like THAT in with him? Absurd. Have those lemon drops poisoned your damned mind?!"

He dared to twinkle at her. "Are you saying that you're unwilling to help guard the stone, Minerva?"

"Oh, I'll guard the bloody stone," she said in a huff, blowing a strand of black hair that had fallen from her bun. "I'll just go and . . . and . . . transfigure a chess set to guard the thing."

Albus smiled. "How delightful."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the headache coming on. "I was being facetious, Albus."

* * *

**June 1995**

The twisting feeling in her soul continued to itch and burn until it felt like a sick fire during the Triwizard Tournament that she brushed off as nerves. Making children fight dragons and grindylows. Honestly. She'd never learned to completely trust her gut, however, until Harry Potter popped back onto the Quidditch pitch with Cedric Diggory's body.

Minerva stood angrily watching as Albus ordered Arthur and Molly about, followed by Sirius and Remus. So many former students, former children of hers that had been led into war . . . and now another generation would be raised as soldiers. It made her sick.

She did her duty, however; she followed orders and helped Albus set things in motion to fight back. Tom Riddle and the Dark Magic he wielded could not be set loose upon their world.

Pacing the hospital wing, she looked in on the poor boy that Albus had been sharpening against a whetstone for years; the boy who was soundly asleep and surrounded by friends and Weasleys and a large black dog that kept watch at the foot of his bed. After hours of watching them all protectively, Minerva retired to her room and undressed for bed. She glanced once in the long mirror and felt bile rise up in her throat. There, scratched along her collarbone in a familiar script . . .

_Miss me?_

* * *

**May 1998**

Her throat hurt from screaming. The sight of Harry Potter dead in Hagrid's arms had finally  _broken_ her. She'd given up love with Dougal in order to remain in the Wizarding world, and she'd not had enough time to build a proper family with Elphinstone. Her students were her children. Remus and Sirius had been hers, and so had James and Lily, and she'd failed them  _all_. But no more so than the boy—than Harry. Tom shouted out his victory, and she couldn't help but wonder when his voice had changed so much. Was it always so high? Was it always so cold?

"Harry Potter is dead!"

And she had screamed herself sick.

Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing and fawning next to Tom—next to  _Voldemort_ —and looking at the man with adoration in her eyes. Minerva had wanted to taunt the woman, and tell her what it  _really_ felt like to be the soulmate of a sociopath.

But Bella had died along with so many others lost to the war that Tom had selfishly started.

A war that Harry Potter had finished.

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

" _Expelliarmus!"_

The bang was like a cannon blast, and the golden flames that erupted between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided.

Minerva touched her chest where the Killing Curse had shot back against Tom. She could feel it. The only soul scar that she would ever treasure, sitting there against her heart. When Potter stood, but Voldemort did not, she felt the itch in her soul scratch itself away after years and years of aching torment. She smiled sadly in relief as she walked over, looking down at Tom's broken, mortal body, and made plans right then to destroy the mirror in her room.


	11. Correspondence

**September 1992**

"Ginevra Weasley, you might as well have been  _born_ with scars," her mother said with a stern huff as she emptied out another bottle of Dittany, tossing it into the bin. "Fred, take out the rubbish, would you, dear?"

"I'm  _George_ ," Fred replied, causing Molly to stutter out an oft repeated apology, and Ginny to giggle at her devious older brother.

Ginny had plenty of scars, most thanks to having six older brothers. Bill had taught her to walk but rarely paid much attention to where she was going. "Mum! Where's the dittany!" he'd screamed when Ginny fell and cracked her head on the side of the table.

Charlie taught her how to fly when no one else was looking—"Dad, where's the dittany?"—and she'd crashed into a tree that first time.

Percy once accidentally dropped a book on her toe when neither were paying attention to where they were going. She got one drop of dittany and a twenty minute lecture on keeping inside one's personal space.

Fred and George hovered over a small cauldron in their bedroom and, while wearing protective gear themselves, they spoonfed Ginny something they'd invented that somehow gave her blisters that covered her arms and face. The twins didn't need to ask their parents where the dittany was; they kept it stocked under their bed.

Ron started giving her scars when he started treating her like a girl instead of like his sibling. The first time he told her that their mother said it was impolite to hit a girl, Ginny had punched him in the arm until he finally struck back.  _Ron_ needed the dittany  _that_ time, though.

Ginny went to Hogwarts with a plethora of scars and a bottle of dittany in her trunk and never thought twice to count any new marks that appeared on her skin. Even if she knew to look for them, she was far too busy staring at Harry from down the Gryffindor table, and writing in her diary about the way her heart beat fast at the sight of him.

" _Do you think Harry Potter could be my soulmate, Mum?" she'd once asked her mother._

_Molly had turned bright red and then ran a hand over her daughter's forehead, pretending to push away a lock of hair. She smiled softly. "Even if he's not, you can always love and marry who you want. Remember that."_

_Ginny smiled back. "Isn't that why you married Daddy though? 'Cause he's your soulmate?"_

_Sighing, Molly kissed the top of Ginny's head. "I married your father because I loved him. Being my soulmate just made it better, perhaps."_

Ginny stared at Harry Potter's lightning-shaped scar and decided that maybe she'd marry him anyway.

She told her diary as much.

* * *

Any time she had to go near the girl's bathroom that had been flooded, something awful turned in her stomach. Something deep and dark that buried itself inside of her and began to  _itch_. Missing time. She was missing time and losing her memories, at least . . . she thought she was.

_I think I'm sick, Tom,_  she wrote in her diary.

_I'll take care of you,_  he wrote back.  _Tell me about your day._

Ginny sighed.

_Luna has a soulmate. He's asked her to stop drawing on herself. Do you think you could be my soulmate, Tom? That would be nice. You're a good listener._

_I already have a soulmate,_ he told her.  _I hope I see her again one day._

_Lucky witch,_ Ginny wrote.

Tom took a long time, but eventually wrote back,  _Tell me more about Harry Potter._

* * *

**June 1993**

She stayed in the hospital wing as long as Madam Pomfrey would allow. Not only could she not bring herself to face Colin or Hermione, but looking at Harry—her literal hero—reminded her of the stench of blood, and the dank, damp smell of the Chamber of Secrets; like stale water and rotting rodent carcasses. She couldn't remember much of what she'd done down there on her own—or much of the year—but she remembered the smell and the feeling of something  _crawling_ inside of her.

Few understood.

Few had sympathy.

She'd woken once to find Professor McGonagall running her fingers through her hair. She'd looked like she had been crying, and when Ginny made eye contact with the older witch, she thought she briefly saw guilt flash in her eyes.

Her mother had cried  _hysterically_ as though something horrible had happened to  _her_ instead of Ginny. Once the tears were all dried up, Ginny was given an hour long lecture on how thoughtless she was and how she should have known better and why hadn't she told anyone? Her father stood awkwardly and tried to make sad little jokes to cheer her up, which only made her feel worse.

Her brothers fell into two groups: awkward and guilty.

Fred and George tried acting as though nothing at all strange had happened, likely in the hopes of speeding her recovery and making her feel less pathetic. All it did was force a smile that felt too fake, and made her feel horrible when they didn't seem to notice the difference.

Ron and Percy took turns blaming everyone else and then themselves.

"I should have protected you," Ron had said.

"I should have noticed something," Percy lamented.

It was all about  _them_.

The two brothers she knew  _would_ have been at her side in a flash—letting her cry in their laps while they stroked her hair as though she were still very small—never even showed up. Not a word, not an owl, not a single mention of Bill or Charlie until she finally had to ask.

"Surprised Bill and Charlie haven't come running in to help," she said sarcastically, using it as a defensive wall between herself and her mother, who refused to leave unless it suited her.

"Oh," Molly said, caught off guard by the remark, "we decided not to tell them." Ginny's eyes widened and she felt something heavy sink in her gut. "Charlie's work is just so dangerous, he can't be distracted. Same goes for Bill. And so far away," she said with a heavy sigh, "I don't see why those boys have to go out of the country to find a good job. So expensive to travel. You understand, dear."

She didn't.

Strangely enough, Luna Lovegood had become a dear friend who had her own way of understanding without pitying. She'd described Ginny's ordeal with Tom Riddle in the simplest of terms that made Ginny want to cry with relief.

"It's a bit like a pillywog infestation," the blonde said as she drew pretty patterns on Ginny's arm with brightly coloured ink. Ginny'd asked her not to use red or black. "Pillywogs are very pretty and make lovely sounds to draw their prey in," she'd told Ginny, "but once they catch someone, it's quite hard to get rid of them. They stick on like leeches, sucking your good thoughts away."

_Sucking my soul_ , Ginny thought. "Thank you, Luna."

"Oh!" Luna exclaimed excitedly. "Look,  _you've_ got one too!"

Blinking, Ginny turned to her friend, throwing her a confused expression. She followed Luna's line of sight to her own arm where, hidden among the unicorns and flowers that Luna had drawn on her, was a bold, black word:

_Hello._

Horrified, Ginny screamed.

* * *

_Are you there?_

_Hello?_

_Anyone?_

_What's your name?_

_Do you exist?_

_Can you make the pretty flowers again?_

_Hello?_

_Who are you?_

Ginny tensed anytime she saw the words over the summer, feeling her gut twisting with memories of Tom's fanciful script, dancing across the pages of the black diary in heavy ink that looked expensive and pretty and just so very . . . meant for her. He had been meant for her, she'd thought. Only not really. He'd had a soulmate and she'd known that. But . . . she'd wanted him for her very own. Except, she'd gotten him, given him a piece of her just like she'd wanted, and now she was sick with the thought of it.

She had her own soulmate now. One who wouldn't stop writing. One who might've not known that words appearing out of nowhere had a way of making Ginny throw up in the morning or cry herself to sleep at night only to dream about dead Muggle-borns, slaughtered roosters, and a new and awful fear of snakes.

Eventually, she'd broken down and grabbed the nearest quill, scratching out the words  _FUCK OFF!_  on her own arm. The messages stopped coming after that.

* * *

**December 1994**

"Do you have a soulmate, Neville?"

The boy turned and stared at her with wide eyes. "What?" he asked, practically squeaking in shock.

She smirked, forgetting that some pureblood families treated soulmates like they were a pretty secret that no one was allowed to talk about. Hell, even her own family got jumpy sometimes if it was brought up. "Didn't mean to fluster you," she teased.

"I'm not," he said, only slightly defensively. "I just . . . it's weird. Mine's not . . . it's complicated," he finally said, looking down.

Ginny smiled. "Same here."

He looked up then, lips parted and the crinkle in his forehead gone. He looked relieved. "Really? Why?"

"You first."

He grimaced. "I can't go into details. Just . . . no romance for me," he said with a shrug of his shoulders and a self-deprecating laugh.

Ginny smirked. "That's rotten luck. If it makes you feel any better, I think mine's a girl."

"How do you know?"

She remembered all the messages on her skin. "She dots her i's with hearts."

Neville laughed. "Hey umm . . . do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?"

She watched Harry and Ron in the corner playing Exploding Snap and sighed. "Yeah," she said, "that'd be great."

* * *

**November 1996**

Snogging Dean wasn't  _nearly_ as bad as snogging Michael Corner. Michael had slobbered too much and used tongue right away, which had actually made her gag the first time he'd done it. He'd looked hurt by her reaction, and she'd rolled her eyes. Honestly, boys could be so delicate sometimes. But Dean was hardly delicate. He had almost too eagerly agreed to hide behind tapestries with her, palming her breasts and pressing his groin against her like he had something to prove. Ginny wondered if he had a grudge against Michael and was trying to stake out his territory in some embarrassing act of male ego.

The snogging and rutting was good. It wasn't great, but it was good. It didn't feel like flying or scoring a goal in Quidditch, and she certainly wasn't thinking of snogging her boyfriend the first time she cast her Patronus in a Dumbledore's Army meeting . . . but it was good.

It got slightly better when she'd accidentally pictured Gwenog Jones.

It got significantly better when she accidentally pictured Harry.

She couldn't bring herself to delve too deeply into either thought.

* * *

**June 1997**

"Do you . . . do you think it's cheating?" Harry had asked her when they sat down by the lake during those last few weeks of the year when everything was sombre and tense thanks to Malfoy, Death Eaters, and Snape.

She had her back pressed to his chest as he ran his fingers through her hair. Her childhood dream come true. Almost perfect. She loved him, she knew that much. From how he reacted to her, she might've thought he could love her too. But Harry Potter had a soulmate somewhere.

And so did she.

Whatever it meant.

"It doesn't have to be romantic," she told him. "My parents are soulmates, and they obviously got married but . . . it doesn't have to be that way."

The way he sighed against her shoulder told her all she needed to know.

This was temporary.

It was hard to blame him.

* * *

**February 1998**

Neville was going to die and no one seemed to care. Or at least, care enough to stop Amycus Carrow from using the Cruciatus Curse on him. Gryffindors had mostly been held back by magic, but the majority were too terrified to do anything. With Harry, Ron, and Hermione gone, Neville had become their leader, their beckon of hope and their rallying point. Fight back, he'd taught them, and they'd followed with glee.

And now he was vomiting on the floor because he'd said "Muggle-born" instead of "Mudblood", and Professor Carrow had apparently taken that as a personal slight. Then again, the deranged twin Death Eaters took walking down the hallway on the left side instead of the right as personal affronts to their nature.

"Let him go, you fucking twat!" Ginny screamed, drawing the Death Eater's full attention on her.

She swallowed hard, knowing exactly what was about to happen, but she felt mildly vindicated when she saw Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbott rush to Neville's aid, dragging him by the arms from the centre of the room and—hopefully—out of the harm's way. Madam Pomfrey could help patch him up for now, but there was no doubt any longer: they would need to go into hiding  _tonight_.

"You foul-mouthed little blood-traitor," Carrow said as he trained his wand on her.

Ginny held her own up as though they were prepared to duel honourably. They weren't. She knew that, and she wasn't stupid enough to do something like bow to the man. He hit her with the Cruciatus Curse, and it was hard enough to knock her to her knees with an audible crack against the hard floor. Just when she began to lose consciousness, she let out a quiet laugh as a bat-shaped bogey flew from the Death Eater's nose and began viciously biting his face.

She woke up in the hospital wing, someone with long blond hair doting on her. She groaned. "Luna?"

"Not exactly," whispered the soft, sweet voice. "That was very brave, what you did for your friend. Madam Pomfrey fixed you up, but the Carrows are waiting outside the infirmary. Longbottom vanished, and they think you'll disappear, too. So . . . so I'm going to distract them. My friends and I have put something together and hopefully, your little band of lions can trust the word of . . . well . . . hopefully they'll be here soon to get you somewhere safe."

Ginny could taste blood in her mouth followed by a variety of potions, but the smell in her nose was lilacs, something she never thought she'd enjoy so much. "Pretty . . ." she mumbled. "Who're you?"

The voice never came back, but soft fingers trailed over Ginny's arms, lightly drawing words that she was too dazed to make out. The message was clear enough. Ginny's soulmate was at Hogwarts; and judging by the flash of green she saw before she closed her eyes once more, the girl was a Slytherin.

_Fuck_.

* * *

**2003**

She'd skipped out on the hen's night and instead, went out with the boys the night before Ron's wedding. Everyone was in a celebratory mood, considering Ron was  _stupidly_ in love with his bride-to-be, and not only had Malfoy and Harry become strange friends—with the ferret marrying 'Mione—but her ex-boyfriend was currently buying rounds for everyone to celebrate the birth of his son. James Sirius had been born three months ago, and not even sleepless nights and dirty nappies could sway Harry from his happiness.

Either that, or he was wanting more reasons to drink.

And buy drinks.

And from the look of it, sip spilt drinks from the counter.

"Lightweight," she snorted and threw back the free shot of firewhisky, stacking the empty glasses seven high next to her and smirking at the number. "Seven shots fer the seventh child," she muttered, leaning forward and resting her elbow on the table in front of her and putting her chin on her palm.

"I'm gettin' merried!" Ron said as he fell into the seat across from her, grinning stupidly with his hair mussed and some sort of liquor spilt all down the front of his shirt. "So beaut'ful, dontcha think?"

"Mmm," Ginny mumbled an agreement. "Got a pair of tits on her, thasfer sure."

Ron's eyes widened slightly and he let out a booming laugh. "Yeah, she does! Didna think girls saw that 'bout each other."

Blinking, Ginny thought,  _fuck it_ , and blurted out, "I think I'd like to fuck a girl. Any tips on goin' abou'that?"

Ron stared at her dazedly for a long time, waiting for her to start laughing. When she didn't, his mouth fell open, and he pointed questioningly at Harry in the corner, who had his arm thrown around Dean's shoulder, both doing some version of the can-can, while George laughed at them. "Wha'bout  _them_?"

Ginny shrugged looking at two of her ex-boyfriends. "Maybe I can like both."

"Huh. You can do that?"

She laughed then. "Maybe  _I_ can. You should stick to yer big-titted wife."

"Future wife!" Ron said and then grinned. "I'm gettin' merried tomorrow! To my soulmate!"

Ginny smiled at him. "So, about those tips on shaggin' girls?"

He stopped smiling. "Oh . . . umm . . . lemme go get George," he said and stood up. "He'll be better at this."

Smirking, Ginny waved to the bartender, requesting another shot. "Don't tell yer future wife that."

* * *

George had not, actually, been better at it. Funnier, certainly, and it was always good to see him smile again. He sat her down, drink in hand, and began going over the many ways to woo a female, none of which would ultimately work for  _her_ , and likely had never worked for him. But he was smiling and not painfully tugging on his one good ear, which had become an anxious compulsion after the war.

He told her about lady bits as though she were a boy and didn't have them herself.

"You'll want to get to the clitoris, y'know," he said, "it's located at the bottom of—"

"Oh, you dummy," Ginny said with a laugh. "I hope you're taking the piss, because otherwise Imma cry for all yer ex-girlfriends."

They'd broken out into raucous laughter at that, and she rested her head down on the table, just looking at the shot glass full of firewhisky in front of her. "My soulmate's a girl," she said softly, longingly. "She smells like lilacs. I'm kind of . . . I'm a bit afraid to meet her," she admitted. "Not very Gryffindor of me. 'Fraid to meet a girl."

George briefly sobered and then cleared his throat. "Soulmate huh? Umm . . . lemme go get Percy. He'll be better at this."

* * *

"And he . . . he thought that  _I_  would be able to give you tips on courting a woman?" Percy had asked her with a raised brow when they'd met for lunch two days after Ron's wedding. He was wearing a pressed shirt and a blue and gold tie that didn't match his Ministry robes, which were a hideous shade of green.

Ginny had shrugged. "To be fair," she said with a grin, already seeing the blush rising to her brother's cheeks, "I'd originally asked for tips on  _fucking_ them."

Percy had stared at her, eyes wide, scandalised by her language. "Well, I . . . perhaps, perhaps you should speak to Charlie. He had quite the reputation back in Hogwarts, from what I understand. And who knows what he gets up to on that dragon reserve. It's likely a veritable hotbed of debauchery. I, however, can offer you no help in this area, Ginevra."

He was closing up, the way he normally did when the family spoke about the war, as though he needed to hide something about himself. It wasn't like it was a secret, that Percy didn't exactly favour witches, and the whole family had been trying to make him comfortable in talking about it.

Ginny's method was a bit more . . . blunt. "If you'd like, we could trade tips on sucking cock? It's been a while for me, but I'm sure it's just like riding a broom," she said with a laugh as he glared at her, the wall coming down as his irritation rose. She waggled her eyebrows. "You  _never_ forget how to ride a broom."

* * *

Charlie had taken one good look at her after the words left her mouth, before standing up and saying, "I'm going to go get Bill," sending Ginny to the ground, clutching at her side from laughing so hard. It seemed that her brothers were either embarrassed, awkward, gay, or had zero interest in sex at all, and Ginny would be left to her own devices.

Except, of course, Bill had married a veela, and was well versed in how to please women.

Something that came in quite handy when Ginny eventually ran into her soulmate at Grimmauld Place a few months later. She was dropping off some old clothes that her mother had saved from when the boys were little. She looked a right mess, exhausted from training with the Harpies that morning, but she'd made a promise and, ex-boyfriend or not, Harry was still a friend and she was glad to help him out. Not that he needed it.

"More clothes?" he asked and then chuckled. "Come on up. Daphne's just getting him out of the bath."

She followed Harry up the stairs toward the rooms and was suddenly assaulted by the scent of lilacs. She sucked in a sharp breath as she saw the girl, grinning from ear to ear, standing next to Harry's wife. Long blond hair and sparkling eyes.

"Gin's here," Harry said to Daphne, but the strange blonde had spun her head at his words and stared across the room like a deer that had been startled frozen.

"You?" Ginny asked.

The girl swallowed and nodded her head slowly, a blush tinting her cheeks.

Daphne looked between them. "Have you not met my sister, Astoria? You were both at the wedding."

Harry laughed. "Ginny was pissed the whole night," he said with a chuckle.

Ginny touched her arm lightly, unable to break her gaze away from Daphne's sister, not even to punch Harry in the arm. She smiled. "We've . . . corresponded before."

Astoria bit her lower lip, stifling a smile of her own.


	12. Vows

**March 1985**

Susan had never been afraid of much, always a rambunctious child who got into mischief and wandered into places when no one was looking. "She'll be a Gryffindor for certain," her aunt Amelia would say from time to time. "She's barely walking and ready to climb trees, Edmund."

Then the entire Bones family was killed by Voldemort with the exception of two.

Amelia Bones had never been the soft-spoken and gentle type. Suddenly burdened with her orphaned niece, the last members of their House, she thought the truth from the beginning would be best and told Susan exactly—though not in detail—what had happened to her parents.

Still unafraid, Susan developed a cautiousness that certainly did not exist at birth, born only when her family had been murdered. She grew up watching her aunt slip behind doors and into shadowy hallways to cry when she thought no one was looking; when the weight of the world became too much. Instead of growing courage in her heart, Susan grew empathy and kindness and a burning need to take care of others.

"Aunt Amelia!"

Amelia came running down the hall in a panic, nearly kicking open the bedroom door of her five-year-old niece. "What is it?! Who hurt you?!"

Susan looked up with wide blue eyes and held out her wrist where a red mark wrapped halfway around her forearm, stopping short of connecting at the beginning. "What's wrong with me?"

Staring at the mark carefully, Amelia frowned in shock and horror and said, "My goodness, this almost looks like an incomplete Unbreakable Vow."

* * *

"Can I have some salve too, Mum?" George pleaded, rubbing his bum with one hand and wincing.

Molly looked up from the kitchen table at one of her twin boys and scowled. "You get up to your room right this instant, young man. I'll be sending Fred in after you, and I better hear nothing but silence for the rest of the afternoon unless it's you practising a proper apology to your brother!"

Ron sniffed and wiped his hand across his eyes which were still wet from tears. He frowned when George sulked up the stairs, still tenderly rubbing his backside. Fred could be heard being punished in the next room by their father. Their father, who never punished them unless it was really, really, very bad.

_Deadly_ bad.

"They're gonna  _hate_ me now," Ron whimpered.

Sighing, Molly finished rubbing salve into the mark on his wrist. "I know it doesn't hurt, but I don't want to risk using a charm to get rid of it. Who knows what your brothers were thinking?"

"They said I had to make a vow to be in their special secret brother club," Ron said. "Dad ruined it. I didn't get to finish the vow, and now they'll never let me in."

"Ronald Weasley, you listen to me," Molly said, taking her youngest son's face in her hands, "those brothers of yours were playing with magic they shouldn't even know. Magic that most adults shouldn't play about with. A  _good_ brother doesn't make their sibling do something so terrible as take a magical vow just to be special. You're special all on your—"

"Mum! Where's the dittany?!" Charlie shouted as he ran through the front door looking haggard.

Molly narrowed her gaze at her second born. "Why do you need it?"

Charlie cleared his throat and tried to smile innocently. "Not because Ginny crashed a broom into a tree."

* * *

**September 1991**

"Hufflepuff!" shouted the Sorting Hat, and Susan smiled and let out a sigh of relief.

Her aunt had told her that she'd be proud no matter where she'd end up—except no Bones in the history of ever had been in Slytherin, so that was out—but when Susan asked Amelia about Gryffindor, where her parents had been sorted, her aunt had tensed up and said that a lot of Aurors came from Gryffindor. Susan's father had been an Auror and so had her uncle Edgar, and her aunt Amelia had been an Auror before she got promoted. The way Amelia spoke, though, made it seem like being an Auror wasn't a very good thing anymore. So Susan was happy with Hufflepuff.

* * *

"I'll give you my right bollock if you put me in Gryffindor," Ron muttered quietly to the Sorting Hat. From the look that Professor McGonagall was giving him, he hadn't been quiet enough in his request.

"Not the left?" the hat glibly asked.

"Please just put me in Gryffindor so my brothers won't take the piss outta me if I end up in Hufflepuff."

"Gryffindor!" shouted the hat and Ron nearly fell off the stool, his relief was so great.

* * *

**June 1992**

"Susan!" Hannah cried. "What's wrong with your face?"

Rushing for a mirror, Susan looked at her reflection and her lips parted in confusion. There, just under her eye was a small mark as though someone had cut her, except she wasn't bleeding. "I don't know," she said with a frown. "Did I scratch myself?"

Hannah shook her head. "I didn't see."

They'd been sitting in the common room, learning how to braid one another's hair from the older girls, while most of the boys and some of the girls talked about next year's Quidditch plans. Susan rubbed at the mark near her eye but nothing happened. "It won't go away!" she cried, feeling that same dread of panic that came over her when her aunt had seen the mark on her arm and started screaming.

"What's all the screaming about?" one of the older boys asked calmly as he approached Susan and Hannah. He knelt down on the ground in front of them, taking the mirror from her hand and examining her face. "And you didn't do it yourself? You're sure?"

Susan shook her head quickly from side to side. "I swear it, I swear!"

The boy smiled at her. "You're not in trouble," he assured her. "Look!" He pressed the mirror back into her hand. "It's already fading. That means that whoever it belongs to, is getting it healed."

"What do you mean, who it belongs to?" Hannah asked.

The boy blushed and then cleared his throat, quietly asking, "Your parents haven't talked to you about soul scars?"

Susan swallowed. "I haven't got any parents."

The boy frowned and, before Susan burst into tears, he wrapped her in a tight hug. "It's okay."

"Cedric! You coming back?" one of the Quidditch girls shouted.

"In a bit," he said. "Going to take one of the firsties to see Professor Sprout."

* * *

Ron poked at the cut beneath his eye and Hermione smacked his hand away. "Stop touching it," she scolded. "It won't heal properly."

"I hope it doesn't," he said. "I think everyone should know that I'm a hero. A knight!"

They shared a laugh just as a hush fell over the Great Hall and Harry walked in. Ron smiled over at his friend, stopping only to toss glares at anyone who was looking at him funny. He waved Harry over to sit down between him and Hermione. When people from other tables began standing up to look at them, Ron threw up a rude hand gesture only to have his hand smacked again by Hermione, reaching around Harry's back.

He glared at her and then rolled his eyes as she gestured for him to be quiet because Dumbledore had started speaking. Ron could care less what the headmaster had to say. The banners in the Great Hall were green; it wasn't like they needed to make an announcement.

"Ahem," said Dumbledore. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes . . . first, to Mr Ronald Weasley . . ." Ron went purple in the face; he looked like a radish with a bad sunburn. ". . . for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House fifty points."

His mouth fell open in shock as his table began cheering.

Across the Great Hall, Susan frowned and leaned over to Hannah. "Was there a chess club that we weren't told about?"

Hannah shrugged. "I don't know, but fifty points seems a little much for a game."

* * *

**July 1995**

"I need you to just . . . just stay home. Please!" Amelia shouted. Ever since the Triwizard Tournament, her aunt had been one great big ball of stress. Susan tried to help where she could, but one step out of line and Amelia was panicking, insisting that they change the wards or stop venturing outside. Harry Potter had said that the Dark Lord has returned, and some small bit of courage deep inside Susan had made her want to stand up alongside her classmate and fight back. Cedric was dead because of him, her parents, her family, and everyone except her aunt. Amelia, on the other hand, was clearly flustered.

One day, she'd look in the  _Daily Prophet_  and shake her head, muttering, "That poor boy," over and over again, and the next, Susan could overhear her talking to someone in the Floo, reassuring them that the Minister was certain that Harry Potter had lied.

"You said we'd go to Diagon Alley today," Susan replied, confused.

"I know, but there's . . . Harry Potter went and got himself into trouble, and now Fudge is having the whole Wizengamot meet for a disciplinary hearing. Positively absurd, I tell you. Susan, do not go into politics," Amelia insisted. "It's full of absolute nonsense!"

Susan frowned. "Harry's in trouble?"

Amelia sighed. "Someone claims he cast the Patronus Charm—ridiculous—in front of a Muggle."

"He can do it," she said. "The Patronus, I mean. I saw him use it once at a Quidditch game."

Blinking, Amelia turned to face her niece. "Are you certain?"

Susan nodded. "Why would Harry Potter need to use a Patronus?"

Amelia swallowed and looked down. "Why, indeed?" she asked and then stepped through the Floo.

Bored, Susan went to revise for her upcoming classes—O.W.L.s were coming, after all—and just as she sat down and opened her book, she saw several small spots appear on her left hand. Curious, especially after reading the books on soul scars that Professor Sprout had let her borrow back in first year, Susan grabbed a quill and wrote over the marks on her hand.

_All right there?_

She waited for a reply that came long after the marks had vanished.

_Hermione?_

Susan frowned. Well,  _that_ was a bit of a blow to her ego.

_No._

_Sorry. Doxies got me._

Unable to stop herself, she let out a small laugh.

_Doxies, you say? Be careful. Nasty bite._

_Yeah. No kidding._

* * *

She wasn't sure why she'd kept it a secret for so many years. Perhaps it had something to do with her concern that Ronald Weasley had very obviously been in love with Hermione Granger, or maybe because she worried that he was the type to act before thinking. He was loyal, that much was certain, which was a trait she highly admired, but he was also a reckless Gryffindor, and the Gryffindors in her life usually ended up getting themselves killed. Even Amelia left her behind in the end, and Susan had become a ward of Hogwarts for the few months that she was still underage.

She spent the war occasionally writing to her soulmate, and would smile when he wrote back. Anytime a hideous scar appeared on her body, she'd get a message a short while later that just said:

_Sorry about that one._

It made her smile with amusement and relief. At least he was alive. Wherever he was.

* * *

**1998**

Despite being soulmates, they built a friendship first through the war and then afterward. She breathed a small sigh of relief when Hermione appeared in a copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ , kissing Draco Malfoy behind the Flourish and Blotts. Reporters had stalked Ron for a week, begging for a statement on what he thought about his ex-lover in the arms of a Death Eater, and Hannah gave him refuge at the Leaky Cauldron where Susan was also living, since the idea of going back to the home she shared with her aunt was too much to deal with at the time.

"Bloody menaces!" Ron shouted, closing the door behind him. "Hannah, you can ward them out, yeah?"

Hannah smirked. "You better believe it. I figured out a good warding spell when Neville almost got trampled by a group of photographers a few months back. The Leaky Cauldron is a safe haven from rubbish like that."

He sighed in relief and plopped down at the bar, resting his forehead against the sticky countertop. "Butterbeer if you would, please. I swear, you'd think that I had more important things to think about other than Hermione and Malfoy. I don't give a hippogriff's arse who she's caught snogging. Honestly, I'm more chuffed than anything that she got  _caught_ ," he said with a laugh. "A bloody year on the run hiding from Voldemort, and she gets photographed with Malfoy's hand on her arse. I'm going to have it framed and give it to them as a wedding gift if the ferrety git ever makes an honest woman of her."

Hannah set the butterbeer down beside him and smiled, glancing to Susan who remained quiet at the end of the bar. "Is that so? Weren't you two a thing in Hogwarts? Some of us thought that you were soulmates," she probed, ignoring the scathing glare that her best friend was sending her.

Ron looked up. "Me and 'Mione?" he asked and then laughed. "Merlin, no! I fancied her, sure," he said with a shrug before drinking down a large gulp of the butterbeer. "Her business isn't exactly mine to tell, but I got a soulmate of my own out there . . . somewhere." He put the bottle down and lightly touched the deep scars on his arm. Instinctively, Susan mimicked him, even though  _her_ matching scars had vanished hours after they'd appeared at the end of fifth year.

"How romantic," Hannah teased.

Ron laughed. "Hardly. I ain't done much more than say hello from time to time and apologise for getting myself cut to bits during the war. At least I didn't leave her . . . er . . . them," he said, his brow furrowed a bit, "with anything permanent. You oughta see Harry with Greengrass. Matching foreheads. It's hilarious. They don't even care about it either now that everyone knows what they are to each other."

Susan smiled. "The  _Prophet_ made it sound like quite the love story," she said. "We all know Harry didn't think much about Slytherins outside of Malfoy during school. I'd be surprised if he even knew her name at the time."

Turning, Ron's eyes widened having finally seen Susan at the end of the bar. He smiled a hello and then nodded in agreement. "You'd be right, but don't tell  _them_ that. They're stupid over each other right now. Might as well have been childhood sweethearts. It's annoying," he said with an affectionate laugh. "How've you been, Bones?"

"Susan," she said with a tender smile. "I've been good. Better, at least. Little cramped upstairs."

He raised a brow. "You're staying at the Leaky?"

She nodded. "Until I find my own place. It's roomy, though," she said, looking up to see Hannah slip away into the back. Susan narrowed her eyes at her friend who was not subtle in the slightest. "Do you umm . . . would you like to get a drink?"

Confused, Ron lifted his bottle of butterbeer in reply, and Susan laughed. "I mean . . . I mean somewhere else. Maybe Muggle? Somewhere . . . maybe . . . ugh, nevermind," she said, cringing and then stood to make a beeline for the stairs.

Ron reached out and caught her wrist gently. "Hey," he said and smiled when she turned to look at him. "You're real pretty when you blush. You know that?"

* * *

**2003**

Ron watched her as she traced the scar left behind by his splinching accident. Her tiny fingers moving up and around his shoulder and then back down his arm where the lines almost connected to the marks left by those brain things in the Department of Mysteries. He didn't know why she kept the secret of her being his soulmate for so long, but he didn't want to pry. She must have had her reasons. They'd been together for years, and he knew that he had a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and rocking the boat. He spent his Hogwarts years being right stupid when it came to girls.

Susan wasn't just  _any_ girl; she was his soulmate, and he'd be damned if he was going to fuck it up by asking her why she was keeping secrets.

"She probably wants you to love her for who she is," Hermione had told him when he'd complained to her. "It's scary thinking that someone might love you because they think they're  _supposed_ to."

Ron had cringed and rolled his eyes when Malfoy— _Draco_ —had taken Hermione's hand at that, kissing her wrist. They were almost as bad as Harry and Daphne sometimes. The hideous emerald on Hermione's finger did nothing to lessen the severity of Ron's eyeroll either.  _Family heirloom, my arse_ , he remembered thinking when she'd first shown him.

He wanted to talk to Susan about it, about everything; the ring in the pocket of his robes was a burning reminder of just how much he loved the girl. Most of his friends were married now, even if his brothers and sister—aside from Bill—seemed content to be alone for the time being. Hell, Harry was about to be a  _dad_!

It felt time to grow up.

He knew he needed to talk to her about the soulmate thing.

* * *

Susan pulled herself out of bed, still tired and dragging, not at all ready to go into work that morning, even if she did genuinely enjoy her job at Gringotts. Dealing with goblins after a night of drinking with Hannah and Neville was not the best way to start her week. She left Ron sleeping in the bed they shared, happy that she'd waited to rent the flat until after they became serious, despite how quickly she'd grown to hate her room at the Leaky. It felt like it belonged to both of them right from the start.

She pulled off the Quidditch t-shirt she slept in and tossed it to the side, missing the laundry basket by a few inches. Turning to face the mirror so that she could brush her teeth before hopping in the shower, Susan blinked away her exhaustion and then squinted when she saw words appear on her skin.

_Hi._

Her lips parted and she blinked in confusion. She'd left Ron asleep in the other room, hadn't she?

_I love you._

"Oh gods," she whispered. "He knows." She felt a panic building up inside of her that left her confused. He  _loved_ her. He'd loved her for years, she knew that. He'd said so on their seventeenth date—maybe, she couldn't recall—when the Cannons lost a game, and she'd taken him out for ice cream as a consolation prize. He'd stolen the maraschino cherry from the top of her sundae, and they'd made an absolute mess of one another when she wouldn't stand for his thievery and tackled him in the attempts to win back the topping. Covered in ice cream, fudge, and whipped cream, Ron Weasley had kissed her cheek and told her that he loved her.

Loved her without even knowing what she was to him.

Grabbing a tube of lipstick from her drawer, she drew a heart around his words on her skin that had yet to fade.

Her blue eyes widened when more words filled the little heart she'd drawn.

_Marry me?_

* * *

Molly had baulked at the idea of an ice cream wedding cake, but Ron and Susan refused to budge on the matter. Susan shoved her small slice into his face so hard she was sure half of it went up his nose, but Ron had laughed and licked the frosting from his lower lip before grabbing her wrist and pinning her against the table, stuffing  _his_ slice of cake down the front of her dress.

Half the old women in the room gasped, horrified, but Susan laughed and squealed—because it was fucking freezing—and then playfully shoved him away when he offered to help her clean up right there. Hermione and Harry were laughing, even if their respective spouses looked positively gobsmacked—something Ron thought of as a perk to his actions. When George let out a loud whoop, Ron turned to take a bow and then narrowed eyes at his sister, who was wolf whistling.

"Mine," he mouthed the word at Ginny while pointing at Susan's breasts.

"The cake or the tits?" Ginny mouthed back, waggling her eyebrows.

"Stop messing about with your sister," Susan said, tugging on his tie. "You're coming with me to the loo to get all the sprinkles out of my bra before they melt."

Ron grinned happily. "Well, I did vow to love you for better or worse. This is  _definitely_ the better."


	13. Free

**1976**

"Thanks for coming in, Charlus."

Charlus Potter sighed and ran a hand through his greying hair, too grey for his liking. His wife had a touch more than he did, but he was much too smart to tell her that. He stepped into the Auror's office, a strained smile on his face politely directed at Alastor Moody, who'd worked with him a number of years ago when Charlus was in the Ministry himself, back when Moody was barely out of Hogwarts. "Which of the boys did what this time?"

Moody snorted. "Oh, you're going to love this," he said, leading Charlus around a corner to a locked office. "Came straight to my office after the assault to help keep the rumours at bay. I doubt charges will be drawn up."

Charlus nodded in thanks. "Appreciated. Our family has had all the drama we can handle this year." With Sirius moving in full time, both he and Dorea had been exceptionally busy, dealing with the legal ramifications of housing the runaway heir of the Ancient and Noble House of Black. He thanked Merlin every day that his wife was from said House and just as bloody scary as any of the witches it ever produced, if not scarier. "An assault, you said? Dorea's not going to be pleased about that. We've tried to teach James, and now Sirius, that violence isn't the way to go about handling things."

Charlus wasn't certain, at first, why Moody chuckled loudly at the statement as he waved his wand in front of the door to unlock it. When the office was opened to him, however, it became abundantly clear.

"Oh, love."

Dorea Potter sat in the chair, her legs crossed at the ankle. She was sitting up tall, her posture rigid thanks to her upbringing, but her hands were relaxed as she lazily examined her nails as though she hadn't been sitting inside an Auror's office after having been arrested. One of her nails, Charlus noticed, was broken. The witch turned and levelled a stern gaze at Alastor. "Young man, I hardly think these are necessary," she said, lifting her sleeve to show the magical suppression cuffs. "Also, you're sweet to think they'd  _actually_ hold me."

"Do I want to know?" Charlus asked as Alastor stepped forward to release her. "Is that blood on your dress?!"

Dorea stood and rubbed her wrists, pursing her lips at Moody before turning her attention to her husband and smiling. "It's nothing to worry about, my love. No charges will be pressed."

His eyes widened. "How are you so sure about that?"

"Because I told her that I'd decorate next year's Christmas tree with her entrails if she said a word."

"Auror over here," Moody muttered.

"Dorea! You can't say things like that!" Charlus said, exasperated.

Dorea sniffed. "Why not? The spell isn't hard."

Charlus put his face in his hands and groaned. "Alastor?"

"Didn't hear a word."

Dorea straightened her dress and then affectionately ran a hand through Charlus's hair. "I was justified, darling. I assure you. An eye for an eye, and all that. Honestly, I've much yet to rain down upon Walburga."

He looked up at his wife and swallowed, his worried expression fading into one of anger. "Walburga? The witch you assaulted was Sirius's mother?"

She narrowed her eyes. " _I_ am Sirius's—"

"I know," he said, grabbing her hands and kissing her wrists where the cuffs had been. "I know."

Dorea exhaled slowly. "This has been a long time coming."

* * *

**1965**

"Mum!"

Dorea ran through the manor as quickly as possible until she found James, sitting in the bath and crying as he looked down at his hands. "What happened?" she asked, dropping to her knees and gently taking his small hands within her own.

The knuckles were a deep red, almost purple. Despite knowing that it wasn't a burn, Dorea put one of her hands in the water to test the temperature. The nanny elf that was standing in the corner, twisting her tea towel dress in her hands, looked offended.

James sniffed. "It doesn't hurt," he said. "They just got red."

Dorea kissed his knuckles and then pulled back, eyes widening in horror as it looked as if the skin was splitting. James, however, was physically fine. "Oh, my little love." A soulmate. Her baby boy had a soulmate out there somewhere . . . and he or she was being hurt very,  _very_ badly. Dorea leaned forward and kissed his knuckles again, wishing she could will the comfort through him to whoever it was on the other side.

* * *

**September 1971**

"Whoa," James said in awe as he stood beside Sirius, his new best friend, as they entered Gryffindor Tower for the first time. "It's huge!"

Sirius smirked. "Don't you live in a manor?"

"Yeah but . . . but this is Hogwarts! Gryffindor Tower! Just look at it!"

"I call dibs on the beds!" Sirius yelled, running up the stairs to the boys' dormitories, pushing his way past two prefects and a fifth year, who dropped all of his books when he avoided colliding with the first years. The door was flung open and Sirius's eyes widened in pure delight. He'd been terrified, at first, when the Sorting Hat called the wrong House— _no, the_ right  _House_ , he reminded himself—and he heard his cousins across the hall hissing at him as though  _he'd_ done something wrong.

He was used to it, though.

Sirius seemed to  _always_ be doing something wrong.

He threw himself on the bed closest to the window so that he could look out and see all of Hogwarts below. He placed his hands on the glass, smiling so wide that his cheeks were hurting. He looked out over the Black Lake, over the woods and to the lights coming from Hogsmeade. Beyond that, he saw nothing for miles and miles and miles. He was so far away from London. So far away he felt . . . free.

"I call  _that_ one," James said and threw his robes over the footboard of the four-poster bed next to Sirius's. "I'm going to go check out the rest of the common room. You coming?"

"In a minute." Sirius wanted to stare out the window some more.

James's footsteps out the door were replaced by softer ones coming in. Sirius turned to see a taller boy with sandy blond hair and a funny scar on his chin standing next to a shorter boy, who was nervously biting his nail as though he were trying very hard to break the habit of sucking his thumb.

"Sirius Black," he said, greeting them both.

The taller one smiled. "Remus Lupin. This is Peter."

Sirius grinned. "Isn't this grand?" he asked, taking off his robes and throwing them on his bed. He stretched his arms above his head, letting the finely pressed dress shirt underneath untuck itself from his trousers. "We might as well be grown ups."

Remus laughed nervously in reply.

Peter tilted his head to the side, looking at Sirius's exposed stomach. "What's that?" he asked innocently, pointing to a dark purple scar on the other boy's belly.

Sirius lowered his arms immediately, his grey eyes darkening. "None of your business!" he snapped and then stormed out of the room.

* * *

**September 1973**

When Sirius returned to the dorms after Divination. James was already waiting, sitting on Sirius's bed with his hands on his thighs, looking pensive and angry. "All right, James?"

Hazel eyes met grey. "Peter . . . Peter was running late this morning. He forgot his bookbag and had to come back for it. He . . . he saw you getting dressed."

Heat flushed to Sirius's face despite the fact that the colour drained out of it in a split second. "What?"

James swallowed. "He didn't mean anything by it, and we won't . . . we won't tell anyone but . . . look, he said that you've got—"

"That little fucking—"

"Sirius."

"No! Fuck him for spying on me!"

James stood and took a step closer to his friend. "Sirius, he said that you've—"

"I'll kill him!" Sirius fumed, anger and humiliation overloading his senses. He very briefly tried to use the Animagus meditation techniques that they'd been learning to calm down, but all it did was make things worse as he tapped into primal flight or fight instincts. He didn't even see James reaching out to gently touch his shoulder, but when the hand connected, he flinched away from it and let out a dog-like yelp of pain.

Eyes wide, James jumped back. "I didn't . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

* * *

**December 1975**

Remus angrily thrashed against the Shrieking Shack. It was hours until the moon would set but he was in a mood. None of the Marauders were keen to say a thing. They'd all seen what had happened in the common room when their friend had put himself out there and asked Dorcas Meadowes to Hogsmeade. She'd given him some lame excuse about already having plans with her friends, but when she thought she was out of hearing range—unaware that the boys in the other room each had enhanced hearing thanks to their Animagus forms and lycanthropy—she confessed to Lily Evans that Remus's scars were scary to look at, and he wasn't very handsome because of it.

Bless her, the fiery little Muggle-born had taken her dormmate to town for being so shallow. James was that much more in love with the witch, and Sirius had made a mental note to buy her some chocolates when they went to Honeydukes next.

No matter how Lily had come to his defence, Remus was torn over the embarrassing incident and currently taking it out on the shack, and himself.

"She doesn't know a damn thing, Moony."

James and Peter nodded in agreement.

"You have . . . you have no idea what it's like—"

"Not the werewolf thing, no . . . but you think you're the only one with scars?" Sirius snapped.

"Pads," James muttered softly, and Peter lowered his eyes to the ground.

Before either could say another word, their friend had torn his shirt from his back revealing a smattering of scars all over his body. Some were old, very small, and looked like burns; like when they were in second year and Peter had accidentally touched the tip of his wand to his arm after miscasting an Incendio. Others were permanent welts, running the length of his back. Then there was the small purple marks along his stomach, evidence of a dark curse. James's mouth fell open at the sight of all of them, but his gaze lingered on those even as he consciously scratched at his own stomach.

Remus was openly gaping at Sirius. "You—"

"Got scars too. Am  _I_  any less handsome?" Sirius asked, holding his arms out so they could all take a good look at him.

Remus swallowed.

* * *

**September 1977**

Lily stared at the boys. "Soul scars?"

Sirius nodded and tucked his shirt back into his trousers. James, however, had thrown his shirt across the room when Lily had asked for proof that soulmates existed. The boys had never really talked much about their discovery, aside from the occasional "You got this one? Yeah, me too", and the one time that Sirius had been sent to the hospital wing after a Quidditch injury and spent the majority of his stay there with a mirror in one hand and a quill in the other, drawing very realistic penises on his face. James had been dismissed from class and stormed into the infirmary, matching cocks on his skin drawn over the red-flush of rage.

"You two are soulmates?"

Sirius laughed. "Did you ever have any doubt?"

"But . . ." She looked at Remus. "But Sirius and . . . Remus, you and Sirius are—"

"Dating," the werewolf replied.

"Fucking," Sirius interjected at the same time, ignoring the way that Remus pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly.

Lily blushed. "But . . ." She turned to James. "You're . . .?"

"Completely in love with  _you_ ," James blurted out, and Lily cringed.

"Soulmates don't always mean romantic," Remus said, stepping in between James and Lily, for James's own safety. "My father, for instance, had a soulmate who was a cousin. They were the best of friends with obviously no romantic interest, since they were related."

"That never stopped  _my_ family," Sirius said as he plopped on the nearest sofa.

"What about you?" Lily asked Remus.

"My soulmate was a girl from a village near my hometown. She . . . she died very young. I think about her from time to time, but it's no use wondering what might have been. We could've been the best of friends, we could've fallen in love. Who knows?"

Lily just looked more confused. "But you're . . . you're gay?"

Remus smiled. "I prefer to think of myself as . . ."

"Sirius oriented," Sirius said with a grin.

Lily rolled her eyes. "And Sirius . . ."

"Would hump anything with legs," Remus replied dryly.

Sirius scoffed. "I maintain that your mother's sofa came onto  _me_."

"I'm straight!" James shouted awkwardly, his volume much higher than he'd obviously intended. "I like . . . I like witches. Women. You . . . you're a woman."

* * *

**June 1978**

Lily stared down at James, her green eyes wide with panic as her boyfriend knelt in front of her—on ONE KNEE! Her heart beat faster and she felt her throat begin to close up, overwhelmed with emotions and questions and worries and . . . and . . . and . . .

"You love me?"

"You know I do!" she yelled at him. "We're just . . . there's a war happening and . . . and my sister—"

"Petunia married an absolute bastard," James agreed. "I won't be that. I won't be that to you or . . . you helped me be better, Lils. You help me be a better man every day, and I want to spend the next million days with you."

She blinked. "That's . . . that's over two thousand years . . . they really need to add maths to the Hogwarts curriculum—"

"Lily . . . marry me?"

She stared at him, kneeling there looking so utterly vulnerable. She'd ignored the ring he put out on display; it was obviously an heirloom, and she did not want to be one of those girls that lost their mind over something as monetary as jewellery. So she kept her attention locked on his face. The corners of her mouth turned up when words appeared on James's forehead, likely without his knowledge.

_Say YES already!_

Lily laughed. "Yes."

* * *

**October 1981**

"I got a Muggle girl I used to shack up with," Sirius told his friends. "A few years back. Darlene . . . something or other," he muttered, squinting as he tried to recall her last name. "She was good people. I told her I was going off to war . . . she didn't know what or where, of course. Maybe she'll take me in. I'll just . . . hide out in the Muggle world. No one will know."

Lily held Harry closer to her chest and cried into his thick mop of black hair.

"I won't let anything happen to you. You are the most important people in my life," Sirius said firmly, sitting down next to Lily and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Remember before you got pregnant and we were in that scuffle with those Death Eaters? You took that hit for me. No witch has protected me like that since—"

"Mum," James muttered sadly.

Sirius nodded. "Let me take this hit for you."

"You shouldn't have to go away. Moony's already left, Merlin knows where," James said, ignoring the way that Sirius growled. That subject was not one to be brought up lightly. James had faith that Dumbledore had Remus on some secret mission somewhere, but they hadn't heard from the werewolf since Harry was born. With rumours circulating that there was a spy amongst the Order, Sirius had jumped to the worst conclusions.

"You won't lose me," Sirius insisted. "I'm still here and so is . . . Peter." His eyes widened. "Hey . . . what if . . . what if  _I_  wasn't the Secret Keeper?"

* * *

_Prongs?_

_We're good, Pads._

Sirius sighed in relief as he stared at his arm.

_Check back in an hour._

_I need to sleep sometime, mate._

_Then Lily can stay awake and write to me._

_Paranoid mutt._

Sirius nodded and took a long gulp of his firewhisky. He'd not been able to reconnect with his old Muggle girlfriend, and he didn't trust anyone else in the Wizarding world to hide him away until the threat of Voldemort passed. Whenever that might be. He'd gone back to his old flat in Diagon Alley, keeping the lights off at all hours and surrounding the place with the strongest alert wards that he could think of. If Death Eaters came for him in the attempt to find the Potters, he would be waiting for them, eager to kill as many as he possibly could, even if he went down with them. James, Lily, and Harry would stay safe.

He watched a Muggle clock on the wall, waiting for the time to pass. People outside were giggling in the streets, dancing and celebrating the holiday. He'd never been much of a fan of Halloween, but Lily had said she'd teach him how to Trick or Treat next year, when the war was hopefully over. He was already planning on some ridiculously over the top costume for Harry. Muggles had the best traditions.

He took another drink and then put the bottle down at his side, reaching for the quill again.

_Prongs?_

Nothing.

_Prongs? Lily?_

He waited and waited, tapping his foot nervously. He checked the clock again.

_Prongs!_

JAMES!


	14. Misled

**1969**

"Magic is amazing, isn't it, Sev?" Lily asked, a light of pure happiness twinkling in her emerald eyes as she watched flower after flower blossom in their hands and float away on a breeze. "What else can you tell me? Do you know why cats follow me around? Is that because of magic? Is magic why my mum can't properly cut my hair? Or why Tuney can't lock me out of her bedroom?"

Severus grinned at her enthusiasm.

"Is it why little marks appear on my skin from time to time . . . like scars or ink or—"

His smile faded. "What?"

* * *

They met at a park between their houses. They couldn't purposely do magic before Hogwarts, but Lily's parents bought her an owl in Diagon Alley when they went to purchase her school supplies, and training the bird to deliver secret notes to one another had been quite simple.

Lily used the park as a way to escape her sister's jealous yelling.

Severus used the park as a way to escape . . . everything.

"What happened?" Lily demanded when she saw him sitting on the swings, his head hung low to purposely let his hair cover his face. She was imposing, very unaware of personal boundaries, and she forced him to look up at her. When he flinched away from her touch, looking in the other direction as colour bloomed on his cheeks, making the bruise stand out even more, she gasped. "Oh, Sev. What else?"

He sighed and held up his knuckles, which were scabbed over. "He won't let Mum use potions anymore," he mumbled and watched as Lily channelled her accidental magic for him, placing her hand over his wounds and actually wishing them away. His black eyes locked on her hands, searching for something that was not there.

"All better!" Lily said, beaming brightly.

Severus sighed. "All better," he sadly agreed.

* * *

**1976**

Lily tried to ignore the gossiping girls in the bathroom. She'd attempted to join in once, eager to find out more about Amos Diggory, whom she'd taken quite the fancy to in her third year, but her roommates were far too obsessed with boys that Lily would rather have  _nothing_ to do with.

Today's topic of choice appeared to be James Potter's arse.

"Did you see him in the last Quidditch game?" Dorcas asked on the other side of the showers. "Those uniforms are so tight."

"Don't bother," Mary told her. "He's besotted with, well, you know who."

Lily huffed. "I can  _hear_ you!" she shouted from behind the shower curtain.

The girls giggled.

"Sorry, Lils. I'd rather take a bite out of Black, to be honest," Dorcas said, and Lily fought the urge to walk out and hex her roommate again for being so shallow. She'd already given the girl a stern talking to after she was horrible about rejecting Remus.

Mary snorted in reply. "I don't think you'd stand a chance. Black's too busy taking a bite out of Lupin, if you get my meaning."

Cheeks flushed, Lily darted out of the shower stall, towel wrapped around her. "What?!"

"Oh, come on, Lils. It's really not that big of a deal outside of—oh my gods!" Mary screamed. "What . . . oh no . . ." She grabbed Lily by the arm and dragged her in front of the mirror.

Lily gasped and brought her hands to her cheeks which were not flushed  _pink_ as she'd expected, but instead were coloured bright green, making her look like a dripping wet Wicked Witch of the West. "What is this?" she screamed, turning the sink on in front of her and scrubbing at her skin. Nothing happened. It was stained. "Why won't it come off? How come none of  _you_ are green?!"

Mary frowned at her friend, glaring at Dorcas, who looked like she was ready to burst into laughter. "I'll go and tell McGonagall. Maybe we can discreetly get you to see Madam Pomfrey so no one else will see you looking like the Slytherin mascot."

Lily stayed in the bathroom, sobbing, while Mary darted down the stairs to find Dorcas already giggling with the girls in the year above them. "—bright green! Oh, I could barely stop myself from laughing! Poor thing."

Mary snarled and stormed over, shoving her roommate. "Did  _you_ do this to her? It's not funny, Dorcas!"

"I didn't do anything to her! How am I supposed to know why she's turning into a toad?!"

"Who's turning into what now?" Sirius asked, carrying James down the boys' stairs on piggyback; both of them had their red ties pulled around their foreheads like bandanas. Dorcas snorted again in amusement, and Mary sighed, knowing that it would get around soon enough. "Someone put green dye in the girls' showers, and now Lily's skin is all green.

James and Sirius both paled.

Mary's eyes widened. "You didn't!"

"I swear on my life," James said, curling his left arm around Sirius's neck to hold on while he raised his right hand, "I did not put green dye in the girls' showers."

When the witches filed out of the common room, Sirius dropped James down on the sofa and sighed. "So . . . she's got a soulmate."

James pouted. "I don't wanna think about it."

"And he's a Slytherin."

"We never should've put green dye in the dungeon showers."

* * *

_Are you there?_

Lily stared at the ink on her hand; the quill in her fingers trembled slightly. It had taken her months to work up the nerve to actually write a message in the hopes that maybe somewhere, whoever he or she was, her soulmate would respond. She had her suspicions, of course, but couldn't bring herself to ask him face-to-face, especially since they'd been doing nothing but fighting lately. The green-skinned prank courtesy of Potter and Black had been the biggest clue, especially when Madam Pomfrey stared at her with pity when she was secured in a bed at the end of the infirmary, far away from the line of green-faced Slytherin boys that were brought in, Severus amongst them.

When she woke up, the mediwitch had left an old book on soulmates next to her bed, and Lily devoured the whole thing in an hour. Then, she'd mistakenly asked the members of her House—because the majority were purebloods—and she'd learned far too much about the sex lives of boys, but more importantly, Black and Potter were soulmates . . . but not in love.

It didn't have to mean anything romantic.

She'd seen the way Severus looked at her sometimes, and it made her a bit uncomfortable. He'd been her best friend, the thing she associated the most with her own magic, but House politics, blood prejudice, and a brewing war was making their friendship difficult. It didn't help that he'd made terrible friends that were playing on his ambitions and interest in Dark Magic.

She couldn't possibly fall in love with someone who dabbled in such things.

She didn't even know if she could keep being  _friends_ with him.

What if he ended up hurting someone?

What if he was her soulmate?

_Sev? Sev, are you there?_

There was no reply.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not interested."

"I'm sorry!"

"Save your breath." Lily stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, wearing a dressing gown. "I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to  _sleep_ here."

Severus looked a mess, but he was trying to hide his desperation even then. "I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—"

"Slipped out?" she asked, no pity in her voice. She was tired, so very tired of trying to defend him. She had to defend herself enough of the time against arseholes like Mulciber and Avery—Severus's  _friends_ —not to mention the girls in other Houses who'd taken issue with her attention from Potter, regardless of whether or not it was wanted. The last thing she needed was to defend her best friend, her . . . she didn't even know what he was anymore. He'd turned on her and called her . . . he was Dark—too Dark—and it couldn't be her job to save him.

"It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends." She was loud when she spoke, turning her attention down the corridor where she could see Crouch and Sirius's brother watching them. Severus just stood there, silent. "You see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"

Severus opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.

"I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."

* * *

_I don't think you're a Mudblood._

Lily stared at the words that appeared on her arm, waiting for them to fade. When they finally did, she closed her eyes and wished that sleep would wash away the anger inside of her.

* * *

**1977**

The summer after they graduated, Lily swore her life to the Order of the Phoenix. As though fate found soulmate magic to be hilariously ironic, while Lily was busy helping Marlene Mckinnon wash dishes after the Order had shared a large meal together, she noticed a mark appearing on her skin. Doing her best to disguise her horror, she feigned sickness and rushed to the loo to hide.

"Damn you, damn you, damn you . . ." she cried, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, refusing to look at the ugly Dark Mark on the skin of her arm. It was cruel irony that her soulmate was a Death Eater and that she, a Mudblood, had the Dark Mark on her arm because of him.

"Sweetheart?" James's voice came through the door following a soft knock. "Marley said you weren't feeling well. Do you . . . is there anything I can do?"

Lily shook her head, rubbing at her skin as though she could force the mark to fade away faster. "I just . . . I just need a minute, James. I'll be fine."

"Is she pregnant? Is she throwing up? Did you knock up Evans, Prongs?"

"Shut up, Sirius! She's not pregnant!"

"Is she throwing up because the idea of having sex with you makes her sick?" Sirius said, laughing.

"Piss off, Pads!"

Lily groaned. "Sirius go away!"

The door unlocked after the sounds of a scuffle and she stood up, pushing against it as Sirius tried to shove his way in. "Black, I will hex you!" she shouted, reaching up to tug on his hair in retaliation. "I need some privacy!"

Sirius huffed. "Marlene said you looked like you'd seen a bloody ghost. What's going on? Lily . . . are you crying? You're really not pregnant, are you? I was just having a laugh."

"I'm not pregnant," she said, looking at both men. "Please go away," she sobbed, tears streaking down her face.

James and Sirius vanished, but Remus quickly took their place and Lily sighed, relenting and letting him inside knowing that her boyfriend and his boyfriend wouldn't let up if they thought something horrible was happening. Remus, at least, could be a voice of reason.

He stared at her. "It's not . . . it's not a woman . . . thing, is it?"

She smiled at her friend and wrapped her arms around him, grateful for the momentary laughter. "I'm fine, Remus. Just . . . everything's a bit overwhelming tonight, you know? War and . . . we'll be fighting our old schoolmates. It doesn't seem real. What'll we do if we see our . . . someone we know? What does Sirius think he's going to do if he runs into his brother at a revel? What am I supposed to do if I see . . ."

"Snape?" he asked. "Well, we can only hope that something happens and those idiots don't do something stupid like actually join You-Know-Who. Maybe they'll wise up."

She looked down at her arm. The Dark Mark had faded.

* * *

**1978**

Lily stopped thinking about Severus and soulmates. She didn't  _need_ a soulmate. She'd found friends and family and love. James was far from perfect, but he was a good man who tried his best and, when he didn't live up to it, he fought to try harder next time. No longer the bully that he'd been in school, her husband had taken to adulthood with forced grace after the deaths of his parents. Considering Sirius's descent into near alcoholism and sleeping with a plethora of Muggle men and women alike, Lily figured that James could have handled his grief in a very different—and much worse—way.

Perhaps they were all forced to grow up too fast.

James kissed the back of her neck after pulling her long hair to the side, his fingers trailing up and down her rib cage. He nuzzled the scar at the base of her hairline, a Dark Cutting Curse she'd received earlier that month when the Order had ambushed a Death Eater revel. She and James had both been captured and offered a place in Voldemort's ranks. Lily was proof that Muggle-borns might have more power than originally believed, and James came from a long line of pure magic. A part of her actually wondered if they were just being used to lure in Sirius. There was a rumour going around that Voldemort wanted  _both_ Black brothers, and perhaps the ancestral magic of the House of Black hadn't completely settled on Regulus's young shoulders.

It didn't matter either way. Lily had spat at the feet of the Death Eaters, and James told them—in great detail—just exactly where they could stick their offer to join them. He'd been hit with the Cruciatus Curse, and Bellatrix Lestrange had shoved Lily down on the ground and threatened to cut off her head. Someone had stopped her just as the curse sliced into her skin, but Lily never saw their face. The distraction had been enough, and she'd been able to reach out and grab James's foot and activate the emergency Portkey on the laces of his trainers, sending them back to Headquarters.

"I hate this scar," James whispered. "It's proof that I couldn't protect you."

Lily smiled. "I'll protect myself," she said. "It's your job to  _love_ me."

"I can do that. Forever."

* * *

**1979**

"JAMES!"

Her husband bolted into the kitchen at the sound of Lily screaming to find her standing in front of the stove, her blouse torn from her chest. She was quickly shucking out of the fabric, terror in her eyes, and he could see why. Deep, ugly scratch marks were rapidly appearing on her freckled skin. "Oh, fuck."

"What is this? What's happening to me?!"

James pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, mostly to prevent her from looking at her skin—at her  _soul scars_. "Do you know who is it?" he softly asked.

Lily cried. "I . . . I'm not sure."

Pulling back, James frowned as he looked over his wife's body while she trembled. "Keep your eyes closed, love." Her arms were completely covered in scratches, and there were large gashes on her throat and stomach that almost looked like . . . teeth marks. James pressed his fingers against the scratches on her arm, matching them up almost perfectly.  _Humans_ did this. Or . . . or something  _like_ a human.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to bed, encouraging her to take Dreamless Sleep as she would no doubt have nightmares. While she rested, he did what he could to erase the scars on her body; some took a lot more magic than others. The scratches faded the easiest, but the bites and gashes took a lot longer. They were  _almost_ dark, but could be temporarily vanished. He made a plan to ask Dumbledore for help in removing them completely. The only one that he couldn't get rid of while she slept, was two small words that had been carved into the skin of her left arm. He was pretty sure she hadn't even seen them since they had been buried beneath a number of other soul scars.

James frowned in sympathy for whoever the poor bastard had been. He gently ran the pad of his thumb over the words on his wife's skin:

_Forgive me._

* * *

Hours later, a crash came from the other room and James jumped up from bed, wand drawn. He checked to see that Lily was still sleeping peacefully and then slowly crept out the door and into the hallway only to find Sirius stumbling around in the living room, bottle hanging loosely from his hand.

"What the hell, Pads!" James whisper screamed at his best friend. "I could've cursed you in the back, you bloody—"

Sirius turned, his eyes red and wet. "Hey . . . there's my . . . my brother from another. . ."

James frowned. "Sirius?"

"Imma kill 'em all, Prongsie. Every last . . . that bloody stupid . . . just a kid, y'know? Stupid, fucking kid."

"What happened?"

Sirius reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a crumpled up piece of parchment. "She actually wrote me," he said with a laugh. "My mother. The . . . the bitch."

James snatched the parchment and gently shoved Sirius so that he'd fall on the nearby sofa and not headlong into the mantle of the fireplace. "Oh, my . . . How would your mother know if—?"

"Tapestry told her," Sirius cried into a pillow. "They killed him, Prongsie. Killed my baby brother."


	15. Dramatics

**July 1991**

Darlene stared at the letter in her hand and read over the words carefully. She'd sent her children out of the room when the strange woman had shown up at their door.

"Look, Mummy, a witch!" Sarah, her five-year-old had excitedly said when she peeked through the window to see who had knocked. Darlene shooed her daughter away, reprimanding her for being rude and then smiled at her son, who carted both of his sisters into the other room.

Minerva, the woman had introduced herself with a tight smile, though her eyes were warm, was the Deputy Headmistress of a school that was special. Somewhere her son would . . . learn to be like . . .

"His father was one of . . . one of you," Darlene whispered. "His real . . . er . . .  _biological_ father." She looked down, and her emotions flickered from sadness to shame to anger swiftly. "I knew him for a short while. He was special. Kept secrets, though," she muttered bitterly. "Didn't like that so much. Said he was a part of some sort of . . . service . . . fighting war. Made sense," she said with a small nostalgic laugh, "he seemed the brave and reckless type. When he stopped coming 'round, I figured . . ."

"Our war is long over," Minerva assured her. "I am sorry for your loss."

"He didn't seem like the sticking around type anyhow," Darlene said, wiping a stray tear from her eye, determined to keep it together. "I married a good man. He's a good father." She cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes once more. "Dean! Come on in here, love. I want you to meet someone."

* * *

**September 1991**

"Did you see that, Mum!" Dean asked excitedly when he watched a family of redheads and a small black-haired boy disappear through a wall between platforms nine and ten. "Mum! Mum! Did you see?"

Darlene nodded anxiously. "I saw, love. I . . . I don't think I'm allowed through. I don't . . . what if I don't make it?"

"Muggle, love?" A grinning blonde appeared at Darlene's side and looped her arm through hers as though they were old friends, gesturing to the wall. "Don't be worryin'. Long as you've got a friend to carry you on through, you'll be jus' fine. I'm Caitlyn, by the by. First year?" she asked Dean. "Same with my boy. Oi! Seamus . . . Merlin, child . . . if you get lost jus' one more time, I'll be leavin' you here, and pickin' up a stray dog on my way home. It'll make less of a mess, I think."

Seamus came running up to his mother, his hair mussed. "Dad says he's not comin'," he said, laughing. "A boy was walkin' past and dropped a toad and it hopped over Dad's shoe. He screamed. It was bloody brilliant."

Caitlyn rolled her eyes and flicked Seamus hard on the ear for his language. "See, love?" she said to Darlene, "you're not the only Muggle nervous about today. My poor husband, I shoulda made him more prepared for this. He's been drinkin' himself silly tryin' to wrap his head 'round it all."

Darlene smiled and breathed a sigh of relief as the Irish witch helped her through the wall, Seamus and Dean leading the way.

* * *

"This the Muggle-born compartment then?" Seamus asked with a chuckle when Hermione and Dean began commiserating over being introduced to magic. Seamus had always known something, but had been spelled by his mother to keep the secret since his father wasn't much pleased to find out that he'd married a witch. It sure didn't help when Seamus's accidental magic kept setting things on fire.

"I'm not a Muggle-born," Neville said. "Not that . . ." His eyes widened when Hermione shot him a look. "There's nothing wrong with Muggle-borns, I'm just . . . y'know . . . not one."

"I'm half and half," Seamus said proudly. "Oi! Neville? Where'd your toad go?"

Neville looked around and sighed loudly. "Oh no!"

When Hermione and Neville left the compartment to look for Trevor, Seamus threw his feet up across the seat and stretched his arms behind his head. "You read comics?" he asked Dean. "I sneaked a stash into my trunk when my mum wasn't lookin'. She says it'll rot my brain, but I took a look in my History of Magic text, and I'm pretty sure if anything'll turn my mind to mush, it's goblin wars."

Dean laughed. "Comics are all right. You like football?"

Seamus shrugged. "Never played. Dad watches it on the telly. I saw one of the players get kicked in the head once," he said with a laugh. "There was blood everywhere."

Grinning, Dean nodded. "I played in a children's league," he said and lifted the leg of his trousers. "Ran into another bloke last year, and he kicked  _me_ instead of the ball. Scraped me up good. It was swollen for a week!" He was smiling proudly, running his finger over the jagged scar left behind on his shin.

Seamus's eyes lit up. "Hey! I had a scar just like that once!"

* * *

**November 1993**

Most of the time, once homework was finished—and sometimes when it was just ignored—Dean and Seamus sat in Dean's bed up against the wall of the dormitory. Seamus had taken a decent liking to football and followed the teams through the Muggle papers that Dean's parents would send him through the post. Meanwhile, Dean had borrowed all of Seamus's comics and used them to learn how to draw. The two stayed like that most nights, while Harry and Ron played Exploding Snap or chess until Hermione lectured them into doing their homework.

Growth spurts over the years made it harder for the two to lie next to one another and read or draw, but Seamus never complained about it, so Dean didn't bring it up either; not even when their legs pressed together or their arms brushed up against one another when Seamus turned a page or Dean adjusted his sketchpad to get a different angle.

When Fleur Delacour entered the Triwizard Tournament, the majority of the boys in the school—and in their own dormitory—had lost all sense of reason when it came to the opposite sex. Dean and Seamus were equally entranced by the allure of the veela, but were at least able to shut up about her when she wasn't standing in front of them. It wasn't the girl, however, that was causing the most drama in Gryffindor Tower. No, that was the epic row happening between Ron and Harry.

After another spitting argument between the two former friends, Seamus plopped down on the bed next to Dean. "Swear that we'll never get stupid like that?"

Dean smiled. "I swear it. Bloody dramatics. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried, mate."

Seamus laughed and then kissed him.

Dean jumped back in shock and kicked away at Seamus, accidentally knocking his best friend to the ground. "What the fuck?!"

Seamus stared up at Dean, a hurt look on his face. "I thought . . . I mean . . ."

"You thought  _wrong_!" Dean shouted.

The next day, when Seamus was distracted and blew up a cauldron in Potions, both boys were sent to the infirmary to treat burn wounds. Seamus's were real; Dean's were not. Madam Pomfrey patted his arm consolingly and then softly giggled to herself and told him that he might want to get used to charming away burn marks, while she snatched up another container of Murtlap Essence to take to Seamus.

* * *

**December 1993**

Dean glared at Seamus from across the Great Hall as he danced with Lavender. He knew for certain that his best friend didn't much like the girl, but after the awkwardness that had fallen between them, Seamus had grown bitter and petty and asked Lavender to the Yule Ball in front of the whole common room. She giggled prettily—Dean supposed—and then began insisting on ways that Seamus could match his robes to her dress so they looked like a proper  _couple_.

Dean had gone to the Yule Ball alone and, when Seamus was close enough to hear, did his very best to loudly tell Harry and Ron that they'd ended up with the prettiest dates of all.

"You're a right arse, you know that?" Seamus angrily cornered Dean after the dance. "She might've not noticed, but I saw you glaring at Lav all night long. You got a problem,  _Thomas_?"

Glaring at his—former—best friend, Dean scoffed. "Don't know why you've such a problem with it,  _Finnigan_. Didn't think you liked her much. Didn't think you liked girls much either."

"You're just jealous."

"Excuse me? Fuck you, Seamus!"

Seamus smirked. "Bet you'd like that."

Punches weren't thrown, but Dean shoved Seamus until he fell on the ground between his bed and Neville's and had taken Dean down with him. They scuffled like that, pushing and kicking and shouting at one another until Dean had sufficiently pinned Seamus to the ground, their hips accidentally pressed together. Dean was horrified to realise that he was hard, but Seamus distracted him by pulling his face down and kissing him thoroughly.

Overwhelmed by the heat of his skin and the taste of firewhisky that Seamus no doubt slipped into the punch, Dean groaned into the kiss that he was certain shouldn't feel this good, and he shivered when Seamus slipped his tongue into his mouth. Unable to stop long enough to think about what he was doing, Dean returned movement for movement when Seamus began pushing his hips up, and the two rutted against one another until they were coming.

When the dormitory door opened, they jumped away from one another quickly, faces flushed and eyes wide.

"I just think you should apologise," Harry was saying.

"Me?!" Ron snapped. " _She's_  the one who took a bloody . . .  _enemy_ as her date! Git can't even say her name right!"

* * *

**September 1995**

"Hurry, before anyone comes back."

"They'll be gone for hours. Harry's got detention with Umbridge, and Hermione's making Ron rewrite his Charms essay."

"Yeah . . . but Neville might . . . so just . . . oh fuck . . . just hurry."

"Usually, speed is not what you're looking for with a blowjob."

Dean laughed and threw his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Shut up . . . tosser."

Seamus smirked. "Maybe another time."

* * *

**June 1996**

"Leave off, McLaggen!" Seamus shouted in the common room.

They hadn't been there when it happened, and even then Dean felt bad to think that he wasn't sure if he would've gone with them. All they knew was that Ron, Neville, Hermione, Luna, Ginny, and Harry had somehow sneaked out of Hogwarts and came back with injuries that landed most of them in the infirmary. None of them were talking about it.

The Slytherins, however, were more violent than usual when the  _Daily Prophet_  arrived, talking about arrests of several known Death Eaters, most of which were fathers of the snakes. Rumours spread quickly, and the fact that Hermione was still in the infirmary  _days_ later had not gone amiss.

"Potter picked a fight with those bastards, and now they're hexing the rest of us in the halls. I lost thirty points yesterday when I had to fight off that asshole, Warrington! So fuck you, Finnigan!" Cormac spat angrily.

"You wish, arsehole. I've seen you tryin' to take a peek in the showers. Didn't know you were hard up for cock."

The older Gryffindor scoffed. "Please, everyone here knows that you and Thomas have been buggering each other for yea—"

Dean snapped.

Cormac ended up in the infirmary with a broken nose, and by the time they all left for the Hogwarts Express, Dean had cornered Ginny Weasley and asked her to be his girlfriend. Because he wasn't gay. He  _wasn't_. What he and Seamus had was . . . it wasn't what people thought. It couldn't be.

* * *

**July 1997**

"You'll look after them for me?" Dean asked Caitlyn Finnigan.

She nodded. "You sure you couldn't find anythin' on your real dad? Er . . .  _magical_ dad, I mean."

Dean shook his head. "Mum didn't even have a picture of him. Wouldn't even give me his name. She doesn't understand. I haven't . . . she doesn't know what's going on."

Seamus sat on the nearby sofa, his arms crossed angrily in front of him. "Load of bollocks. All of it."

Caitlyn sighed. "You take care of yourself, love. I'll check in on your mum and make sure everythin's fine. No one's goin' to come after them. I'll bring 'em all here before somethin' like that happens, you hear me?" She hugged him tightly. "Be safe and come back to us."

When she left the room, Dean looked at Seamus and sighed.

"Fuck you," Seamus muttered, angrily wiping at the tears that were forming in his eyes.

"I'll be dead if I go back to Hogwarts. I'm not even allowed. You think Hermione or Colin and Dennis are going back? I  _have_ to go. They know who I am. I was in Dumbledore's Army. Fuck, I dated the Chosen One's bloody girlfriend for a year!"

* * *

**May 1998**

"That won't go away," Seamus muttered as he looked down at Dean's arm. Seamus had been hexed with a special Slicing Curse, something made of Dark Magic for certain. It was only thanks to Dean's quick actions and Madam Pomfrey's decent supply of Blood Replenishing Potions that he hadn't bled out on the floor. The scar, however, was permanent.

And Dean's matched.

Dean refused to look at his arm as he helped patch up the multitude of other injuries Seamus had obtained in battle.

"How long've you known?" Seamus asked him.

Swallowing hard, Dean sighed. "Since sixth year. Hermione bought some books and borrowed them out to some of the other Muggle-borns since we wouldn't've had parents to teach us about it."

"It doesn't . . . doesn't mean we have to . . ."

Dean paused. "Do you  _want_ to?"

* * *

**2001**

"Oh fuck . . . have I really sunk this low? Gods, do I need help? I need to owl Blaise. If I'm pathetic enough to go around drunk fucking second string Gryffindors, then maybe I've fallen off the deep end and I need—"

"Second string . . . you bitch. Can you . . . can you just . . . shut the fuck up, Parkinson?" Seamus groaned, rubbing his head. The amount he drank at Malfoy and Hermione's wedding the night before had been in direct correlation with the number of women that Dean had danced with.

Unlike many couples that fell into one another's arms after the final battle, Seamus and Dean had too much to work out between themselves. Despite the Wizarding world's more progressive take on homosexuality, especially when it came to soulmates, Dean's Muggle step-father hadn't been pleased to find out that his son wasn't all too fond of girls. That, in addition to some serious post-war panic attacks and anger issues regarding who'd had it worse that last year, and Seamus and Dean ended up in a nasty pub fight in the Leaky when their mutual PTSD was well plied with firewhisky. Hannah had banned them both for a month and, while Seamus came back, Dean disappeared into the Muggle world and ended up going to University to study art.

Aside from the occasional potions mishap or slip of the knife at the kitchen where Seamus worked, Dean never heard from his soulmate. Likewise, all Seamus ever heard from Dean was ink-stains on his fingers and paint smudges on his face.

When they'd seen one another at the wedding, however, the awkwardness was palpable and they'd practically run from one another to avoid conflict.

Still, Parkinson had a point. Maybe Seamus, too, had fallen off the deep end.

* * *

**2004**

"Ow! Damnit, Ginny!" Dean threw his hands up over his head as his ex-girlfriend smacked him repeatedly.

"You're an idiot!" she snapped angrily while her pretty blond girlfriend snickered from the sofa. "You knew who your soulmate was all these years and . . . do you have any idea what a sour pain in the arse Seamus has been? He's only sobered up the past year, you tosser!"

Astoria smirked. "To be fair, Gin,  _you_ held out for a decent length of time," she said, placing a gentle hand on Ginny's arm. "Or were you playing hard to get?"

"I didn't know who the fuck you were, Tori! These two gits have been best friends since their first time at King's Cross!"

Dean sighed heavily, looking guilty. "My . . . my dad died." At Ginny and Astoria's suddenly sad expressions, he groaned. "Don't do that. Please. It was . . . he and I stopped being close years ago when he . . . when I went to Hogwarts, and he and my mum started fighting more. They divorced, and he married this woman that didn't like me. She didn't think he should even still be my dad since he wasn't married to Mum and . . . when he found out that I was . . ."

"Gay," Ginny said it for him.

Dean sighed. "When he found out that I was  _gay_. . . it made things worse between us. Never thought I'd say this, but Muggles aren't as understanding as we are about people who are different. But he died and we . . . my mum made me promise to stop letting  _his_ hangups hold me back. Apparently, my biological father was . . . well . . . he wouldn't've cared much about—"

"Where you put your cock?" Ginny offered.

Dean stared at her and then turned to Astoria. "Does this really do it for you?"

Astoria smiled. "She really does. I think it's good of you to start moving forward, Dean."

Ginny sighed loudly. "Seamus might punch you in the face when he sees you next. You'd best try to just . . . snog him right there. Maybe walk in with your trousers down or something," she offered and then laughed when Astoria cringed at the imagery.

Dean nodded. "I might deserve being punched. I don't even know how to contact him."

Both witches stared at him as though he were stupid.

"I mean . . . other than writing on my own bloody skin you . . . you're both  _mean_ ," he accused, glaring at them.

"He goes to a bar called Serpent's Lair the first of every month," Astoria offered. When Ginny looked at her in surprise, she shrugged her slender shoulders. "What? He's friends with Greg and Millie."

* * *

"Your wife is . . . your wife is so fit, Greg," Dennis said, a blush on his cheeks as he stared at Millicent Goyle on the dance floor like she was Venus sprung to life. The vivacious witch had blossomed in the aftermath of war, and was now practically dry humping a man who was running his hands over her curves as though they were Merlin's gift. "You have the weirdest marriage arrangement."

Greg shrugged and took a drink of his beer. "She's good company, a decent friend, and marrying me got her the inheritance her parents would have kept from her," he said. "Plus, she doesn't care if I occasionally . . ." He trailed off when a new bartender jumped on the line, a tall, blond man who smiled and skipped over the line of girls at the end of the bar to place a new bottle in front of Greg. He sighed happily. "I love Thursdays."

"I love your wife," Dennis said, his eyes still on Millicent, who was now staring at  _him_ in an alluring way as she pressed her back against her dance partner. "Is she . . . she's not looking at me . . . is . . . Greg! Greg!" He smacked his friend on the arm. "Your wife is—"

"She's been trying to lure you in for months, mate."

Seamus snickered and sipped at his club soda. "Give the kid a break," he said. "Can't blame a bloke for not understanding the dynamic you've got set up there. Hell,  _I_  still don't quite know how it all works."

"She's so pretty," Dennis said, tilting his head to the side as he stared at her.

Laughing, Seamus shook his head. "If you say so. Not exactly my type. I prefer—"

"Tall, dark, and handsome?" Greg suggested with a smile.

Seamus blinked at his friend. "Was gonna say that I prefer a bit of cock, but I suppose if you want to be—"

"No," Greg interrupted and turned Seamus's barstool around to face the door. "Tall, dark, and handsome."

Dean stared at Seamus from across the room.

Seamus swallowed hard, eyes wide. "Well . . . it's been a while," he said with a sigh. "Maybe I can have both." He reached for his glass and threw it back.

Greg's brow furrowed. "Finnigan, there's no alcohol in—"

"Shut up, Goyle," Seamus said and then grinned nervously when Dean smiled and waved at him.


	16. Family

**1981**

"You can do it, Neville," Alice said with a beaming smile as she encouraged her son to take his first steps. Neville giggled at her, one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other reaching out for her. "Frank! Mum! Dad! Get in here!" When Neville finally took that first step, he stumbled forward, wobbled to the side, and fell.

Frank rushed into the room at the sound of crying and sighed at the sight of Neville sobbing against Alice's chest, a small cut in the centre of his cheek. "Aww, don't worry, son," Frank said, running his hand over Neville's head. "Women love a man with scars."

Alice pinched her husband. "Hush you. Fix this before my mother comes in and starts screaming that we've irreparably damaged the baby."

Someone screamed, but it wasn't Alice's mother. No, it was her sister-in-law, Asterid who was all but sobbing as she carried her daughter into the room. It wasn't often that the Longbottoms and the Browns got together, but Alice and her brother had once been close, and Frank had been raised to believe that family was the most important thing in the world. Despite their differences, they  _were_ family.

Which was the only reason that they put up with Asterid.

"Something's happened to my baby! Look at her! Alice, you're best with charms? Can you fix her perfect face? Oh, I hope this isn't permanent! Could you imagine?!"

Alice sighed and shifted Neville into Frank's arms while she took a look at her niece. Eyes slightly wide, Alice glanced back at Neville, noting that the shape and placement of the cut on his cheek was an exact replica on her niece's face.

"Oh dear," she muttered softly. "Come to aunt Alice, Lavender, and we'll get you all fixed up."

* * *

**September 1991**

"Horrible people," Augusta Longbottom snapped as she watched Robert and Asterid Brown pass them by, their daughter skipping toward the Hogwarts Express, blond pigtails swaying behind her. "Family is the most important thing in the world, Neville," she said, turning to her grandson who was staring after Lavender and her parents with a sad look in his eyes. "They chose to abandon family, and that makes them the worst of people. Those are the real blood-traitors, if you ask me."

Neville swallowed nervously. "Gran . . . do you . . . do you think that she knows—"

"Unlikely. The Browns were the good sort of people, but that girl's mother is as vapid as a Parkinson. I wouldn't be surprised to find a relation there. You, however, have been properly raised and know what you need to do."

Neville nervously nodded. "Work hard, pass my exams, don't get in trouble, take care of my soulmate," he whispered, reciting the list verbatim.

Augusta grinned proudly. "Keep your distance, if you can. I'd rather not have her be a terrible influence on you."

* * *

**May 1992**

"Madam Pomfrey?" Parvati asked as she walked into the infirmary with Lavender at her side, both blushing wildly. "We were wondering . . . we heard there was a fight at the Quidditch game, and we were wondering if you could tell us who was there."

The matron stared at the girls. "Why do you want to know?"

Parvati giggled. "Well, Lav here has a cut on her nose and we were told that a boy in the fight had theirs broken."

"Parvati!" Lavender scolded but then buried her face in her friend's arm to stifle her own laughter.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "You girls should have more important things to think about at your age than boys."

"But Madam Pomfrey! Lavender has a  _soulmate_ , and he's right here in Hogwarts! It wasn't a Slytherin, was it? We heard that the fight was between two Gryffindors and Draco Malfoy and his lot. Doesn't she deserve to know that she has true love out there, waiting for her?"

Neville, who was lying in bed behind a partition, rubbed his recently broken nose and grimaced at the girls on the other side of the room. He'd been taught from a young age that soulmates weren't a right but a responsibility. He'd known who his soulmate was for as long as he could remember. While he couldn't remember ever meeting his mother's brother—who had all but disassociated his family from the Longbottoms when Neville's parents ended up in St. Mungo's—Neville knew of his cousin, his soulmate, the person magic had given him to look after.

He'd never once thought that some people had soulmates who weren't related and could end up romantic. Neville made a note to visit the library once Madam Pomfrey released him. He knew for certain that he didn't, and wouldn't, feel  _anything_ romantic toward Lavender. His gran had taught him the history of most pureblood families.

"I'm just glad the Blacks went and inbred themselves into nothing," she'd said. "You won't have to attend Hogwarts with their lot."

"Aren't we related to the Blacks?"

Augusta Longbottom had scoffed. "Yes, dear, but from a  _finely-trimmed_  branch of that family tree."

* * *

**October 1993**

She'd been crying since the owl came that morning with a curt note from her mother about how a fox had gotten into the rabbit cage and mauled Binky, Lavender's sweet little bunny. She'd wanted to bring it to Hogwarts with her that year, but her father insisted that rabbits were not on the list of animals one could bring to school, and her mother would be just scandalised if Lavender were teased for being different in any way whatsoever, even over something as ridiculous as her choice of pet.

"Ron Weasley has a rat," she'd said. "Rats aren't allowed."

Her mother had sniffed at that. "The Weasleys aren't the type of family you should be emulating, young lady."

Lavender had sighed at that, not saying another word. She'd thought that, while he was a bit awkward, Ron Weasley was quite nice. He'd offered her condolences on Binky's death that day, even defending her grief to Hermione Granger, one of his own best friends.

She sat down for dinner, not very hungry. No one bothered to look at her. Even Parvati was distracted by eavesdropping on Harry Potter, who was whispering to Ron and Hermione about something that happened in Hogsmeade. Lavender had gone, but didn't have the heart to really enjoy it.

A small chocolate bar was pushed in front of her. She blinked and looked up.

Neville awkwardly smiled at her. "I'm sorry . . . about your rabbit," he whispered. "I know it's not much but . . . well, Professor Lupin says that chocolate helps after you've been around a dementor, y'know? And . . . well, I know you weren't around a dementor, but that doesn't mean you aren't still sad."

She smiled softly at her cousin and wiped a tear from her eye. "Thank you, Neville."

* * *

**January 1996**

While Harry, Ron, and Hermione were muttering to one another over their copy of the  _Daily Prophet_ , the rest of the table was staring at Neville. Lavender had known, of course, what had happened to her aunt and uncle, but from what she'd gathered, Neville hadn't told many others at Hogwarts about it.

He didn't need to now. It was right there in black and white.

_MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN_

The horrible face of Bellatrix Lestrange looked up at Lavender from the paper. She felt Parvati shudder next to her and whisper, "Could you imagine? Horrible woman." Lavender nodded, her attention focused on the byline beneath the Death Eater's photograph:

_Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Frank and Alice Longbottom._

Neville said nothing but grew fiercely strong during D.A. meetings. After one, while everyone else was focused on perfecting their Patronus Charms, Lavender approached him. "How . . . how are you?"

He blinked at her. "Fine. You?"

She shrugged. "I was . . . I was wondering. Are your parents . . . are they still in St. Mungo's?"

Neville's eyes widened. "Why?"

Lavender swallowed. "I'd . . . I'd like to meet them. It was brave. Brave what they did. Who they were. I don't think I could be brave like that. I'm only in Gryffindor as a default, you know. Not cunning enough for Slytherin, smart enough for Ravenclaw, or . . . well . . . I'm not very nice, you know. Hufflepuff was out."

"You're loyal," he said. "Hufflepuffs are loyal. I wanted in that House. Tried talking the Sorting Hat into it, actually."

"If I was loyal, I would have stuck by my family."

Neville looked down. "You couldn't've known."

"I  _did_ know," Lavender insisted. "I knew who she was. Dad doesn't talk about her much because . . . well, he and Mum are in serious denial about Death Eaters and . . . and You-Know-Who. I think they don't want to imagine what could happen. Stick their heads in the sand and it'll all go away. But bad things are coming. Professor Trelawney said so. I'd rather be brave like  _your_ parents than naive like mine."

* * *

**December 1996**

"Everyone's a bunch of tossers this year," Seamus said angrily as he threw himself on his bed.

Neville glanced up from the Herbology book he'd been focused on. "Dean and Ginny?"

Seamus rolled his eyes. "It's bloody disgusting is what it is. If it's not the two of them snogging in the common room, it's Ron and Lavender. I caught him the other day with his hand up her blouse, y'know."

Neville's grip on his book tightened in annoyance. "It's not right. He's doing it just to make Hermione jealous. Lavender's going to get hurt. Hermione already is."

Seamus snorted. "She didn't seem so hurt when she was rubbing Cormac McLaggen in Ron's face. Why're  _you_ so upset about it? Taken a fancy to Granger, have you?"

Neville rolled his eyes. "Hermione is my friend."

"So it's Lavender then?"

Eyes wide, Neville shot Seamus a withering look the likes of which he'd never used before. He'd always been the calm one, the quiet one, the gentle Neville who let people walk all over him. He'd done just enough to get by at every turn and even  _that_ had been hard as hell, and he was bloody tired of it. "She's my cousin."

Seamus's eyes widened. "She's . . . hell, mate, I didn't know that. You don't exactly—"

"Our families aren't close anymore. Doesn't make me want to look after her any less."

A grin came over Seamus's face. "You mind doing me a favour? When you finally give Ron what he's got coming, would you give a dose to Dean?"

* * *

**April 1997**

Neville put his arm around his cousin while she sobbed into his robes. "It's not fair," she said. "I gave him everything! I was . . . wasn't I a good girlfriend? I watched his Quidditch games, and I cheered, and I bought him presents, and I . . . I snogged him anytime he wanted to—"

"Too much information," Neville said. "He's a git. All boys are gits."

Lavender sniffed. "Stupid Hermione."

"You know it's not her fault. Ron's just never known how to—"

"It's not like they're going to end up together," she said, interrupting him. "Hermione has a soulmate and it's certainly  _not_ Ronald Weasley."

Neville's eyes widened. "How do you know that?"

She scoffed. "I'm her roommate. We see one another naked in the showers." When Neville's eyes widened further, and his face turned red, she actually laughed. "Oh, I needed that. Anyway, Hermione gets soul scars from time to time. Quidditch related, by the looks of them. She's so focused on thinking every moment of every day, I', sure she hasn't even noticed them."

"If they're Quidditch injuries, how do you know that her soulmate isn't Ron?"

"Because she once got one when the  _Slytherins_ were practising."

His eyes widened again so much that his head started to hurt.

* * *

**1998**

Lavender had always been told she took after her mother. Practically identical in every way. However, the more she grew, the more she was noticing that perhaps she was more like her father, or at least her father's side of the family. She smiled while watching Neville from across the Gryffindor table as he fumbled anytime Hannah Abbott looked his way.

"Merlin, was I that obvious when I fancied Ronald?"

Parvati laughed. "Oh, Lav . . . you were worse."

Seventh year was so much worse than fifth. Lavender decided she would gladly trade the Carrows to have Umbridge back. Umbridge had taught them nothing and imposed ridiculous rules and passive aggressively acted as though she were saving the reputation of Hogwarts, but she didn't force students to torture one another. She didn't torture them herself when they refused.

When Neville opened up the Room of Requirement, Lavender was the first brought in behind Ginny Weasley and Hannah Abbott. They spent weeks in the room, living off of food that they squirrelled away from the house-elves before a path opened up, leading into the Hog's Head. Lavender did her part by learning as many Healing Charms as possible. Neville had a bad habit of running into the Carrows. Lucky for Lavender, who caught onto whom her soulmate  _really_ was, Parvati was excellent at Glamour Charms.

"This one'll scar," she muttered as she put a paste on Neville's cheek. They'd sneaked into Slughorn's rooms the night before and pilfered just about everything.

He stared at her face in confusion and she smiled. "Parvati covered mine," she said, touching the place on her cheek where Neville's soul scar had mirrored itself.

"You know?"

"I know." She set the paste down and sighed. "I'm glad. I spent too many years being . . . well . . . stupid about boys. Always thinking that I'd have some silly little happily ever after. I'm glad my soulmate turned out to be family. I think when this war is over, I want a family more than I want a boyfriend."

Neville grinned and took her hand. "You've got me, no matter what."

"I'm going to go and put this away," she said and closed up the container of paste. As she stood, she watched Hannah walking nearby with her arms full of bed linens. Lavender smirked to herself and then hip-checked the Hufflepuff, causing the girl to stumble and fall to the side, landing in Neville's lap. "Oops," Lavender muttered and then grinned as Neville's face turned beet red, matching Hannah's blush perfectly.

* * *

**May 1998**

He smelled like fire and blood, which he thought was fitting since his blood felt like it was on fire. Filled with rage unlike he'd ever before known, Neville stood side-by-side with Ron as they cornered the snarling werewolf.

Neville's head hurt. The Sorting Hat that had been set ablaze by Voldemort had burned his skin and would likely scar, but he didn't care about scars anymore. He had plenty. Scars from Slicing Hexes thanks to a year against the Carrows; scars from Death Eaters early on in the battle; and deep, ugly bite and claw marks that started at his shoulder and crisscrossed over the side of his face.  _Those_ scars he would wear forever, and they weren't even  _his_. He wondered if Greyback knew how much danger he was in, facing off against the soulmate and ex-boyfriend of the girl he had killed in cold blood.

He didn't look like he was afraid.

Pity that.

Ron threw a series of spells that Neville assumed he'd learned from Hermione because they were vicious and horrible and just this side of grey, enough to be painful but not exactly Dark. Distracted by the redhead, Greyback didn't react in time to stop Neville, who lifted the sword of Gryffindor high above his head and let it come crashing down.

* * *

**2004**

"It's singling out an entire minority of people based on outdated information!"

Hermione was in true form, standing in the centre of the Wizengamot courtroom. They'd played the cards perfectly to gain rights for werewolves, at least the right to seek medical treatment and have Wolfsbane provided to them for free. The old politicians had baulked the most at that, but Hermione wouldn't budge. If they were so concerned about the danger that werewolves posed, then how much were they willing to spend on their own safety?

It helped that she had the Malfoy money backing her.

It helped that most of the Wizengamot feared her even without it.

Almost everyone stood in the courtroom, years after the fall of Voldemort. Neville had Apparated down from Hogwarts, since he was the real reason the fuss was being made in the first place. Medical treatment and Wolfsbane aside, Dolores Umbridge's stupid laws regarding werewolves and employment were still in play. Though he wasn't a werewolf himself, the soul scars left behind by Lavender's death were something he refused to talk openly about with anyone other than people he trusted. Rumours flew around that Neville Longbottom was a werewolf, and no one who knew the truth bothered to correct them.

It made people nervous. It made blood purists angry. It sparked something righteous in Hermione and Neville grinned and sat back as she used him as a weapon to fight her causes.

"A werewolf should  _not_ be teaching children!" someone shouted.

"A werewolf taught children already, and Remus Lupin died a hero!" Hermione snapped angrily. In the crowd, Harry put his arm around young Teddy Lupin, who sat up a little taller, lifting his chin a bit at the mention of his father. "Neville Longbottom is a war hero, and you would forbid this man from earning an honourable living? Neville Longbottom single-handedly recruited an army of students at Hogwarts that helped win the war. Where were  _you_ when Voldemort fell?"

In grand celebration, Hannah opened up the Leaky for everyone. Old friends and former enemies toasted Hermione and Neville, and drank in memory of those that were no longer with them. They raised their glasses, speaking the names of their fallen loved ones, and Neville was honoured to raise a pint and smile.

"To Lavender Brown."


	17. Lies

**1965**

"Charles," Muriel said, her lips pursed in irritation. "Charles are you listening to me at all? Ignatius, he's not even  _listening_ to me!"

One brother looked to the other and then back to the meddlesome old witch. "Muriel, perhaps he's still just a bit . . ."

"I'm in mourning. I'm in mourning for my wife, Muriel, and I'm hardly in the mood to be instructed on how to raise my children," Charles Prewett snapped. At his sister's raised eyebrow, he sighed. "Forgive me, I did not mean to take my anger out on you."

Muriel nodded. "Quite right. Your children don't need to be raised, Charles. The boys need to be . . .  _corralled_ , the hooligans. Durmstrang would have been a better fit than Hogwarts. I have no care for the way Dumbledore runs that school. If you knew what  _I_  know about his family—"

"Albus Dumbledore is a hero," Ignatius said. "Were it not for him, Grindelwald—"

"Don't you start with me, Ignatius. Considering who  _you_ married, you've no place to talk about Dark wizards!"

"Lucretia barely speaks to her family! Not  _all_ the Blacks—"

" _Enough_  of them do and—"

"STOP!" Charles stood and ran a hand through his greying red hair. "Can we not? I'm exhausted. I buried my wife not a month ago; I'm entitled to my grief. And while I appreciate your concern for my sons, Muriel—"

"Molly is seventeen, Charles," Muriel interjected. "It's time. It's  _past_ time. She needs to be paired off with a good wizard from a well-off family. I have heard the most terrible rumours."

Gideon and Fabian Prewett finished eavesdropping on the conversation before darting upstairs to their sister's room, not bothering to knock before pushing inside and closing the door behind them. Gideon flicked his wand at the door.

Molly looked up, eyes wide. "If Father gets another notice from the Improper Use of Magic Office, you're both going to wish you were born without backsides, they'll be aching for months," she said reproachfully. At their serious expressions, she grew tense. "What is it?"

Gideon cleared his throat. "Aunt Muriel's downstairs."

"She's wanting you betrothed," Fabian added.

"Says that Mum should've done it years ago when you were still underage and would be less likely to go off on your own. She knows about you and Weasley."

Molly's face lost all colour, and she clutched at her chest. " _What_  does she know about Arthur?"

Gideon snorted. "Enough. Besides, you're hardly secretive about it, are you? Almost got caught strolling out at night, you did. She thinks he's a bad influence. Everyone knows his brother is barmy, and he's not got much for money."

Molly frowned. "I don't care about that. He's good to me. Kind and . . . and funny."

Fabian plopped down on his sister's bed and looked up at her. "You might want to get yourself up the duff then," he suggested and, at Molly's scandalous expression, he clarified, "because Aunt Muriel's downstairs trying to get Father to sell you off to the Selwyns or the Yaxleys."

"Uncle Ignatius suggested one of the Avery brothers, but Aunt Muriel said they're all courting the Black sisters along with the Lestrange and Malfoy families, and you know how she feels about the Blacks," Gideon said with a laugh. "Then again, I've seen them at school."

"Andromeda's not so bad," Fabian said.

"No," Gideon agreed, "but Bellatrix makes my left testicle want to crawl up into my stomach."

"Gideon!" Molly scolded her brother, cringing at the visual he was creating. Her brothers ignored her.

"Just the left?" Fabian asked.

Gideon nodded. "Righty's a brave soul, he is."

"Father wouldn't just sell me off," Molly insisted, standing up and pacing around the room nervously. "I'll tell him that I  _love_ Arthur."

"The bloke with no money, a mental brother, and a reputation for sneaking you out of Gryffindor Tower," Gideon said. "That sounds like it'll work."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Father'll listen to me!"

Fabian shook his head. "Mum being gone . . . he's not the same, Molls, and Aunt Muriel's taking advantage of it. You can already see her breaking him down. She's shouting over Uncle Ignatius too, and he looks ready to Disapparate out of the house and  _never_ come back. You need a plan. If you want Weasley, you need to come up with something good enough that it'll shut her up forever."

"Does he have any rich relatives that could . . . have an accident?" Gideon suggested with a chuckle.

"A secret power that he's not told anyone about?"

"He could maybe try to hide his weird thing about Muggles—"

"—and maybe lie and say that he's secretly the reincarnation of Godric Gryffindor or—"

"Soulmates," Molly whispered. "Aunt Muriel wouldn't baulk at the idea of a soulmate. She's too old fashioned for that and . . . and if Arthur was my  _soulmate,_ she'd let me marry him. Goodness, she might even try to arrange it with Father."

Gideon blinked, looking at the scar on his sister's ankle that had been there almost all her life. Permanent, secret, and Dark. If there was one thing that could be said about Arthur Weasley, he wouldn't be found anywhere  _near_ anything Dark. "Molls . . . Arthur Weasley  _isn't_ your soulmate."

She smirked deviously and turned her twinkling eyes on her mischievous brothers. "No, but Aunt Muriel doesn't know that. I need your help."

* * *

It had taken a lot of research, the use of a Protean Charm, an invisible quill, and a steady wand for Molly and her brothers to trick Muriel into thinking that Arthur Weasley was her soulmate. She waited until Muriel was in the room but not paying too close attention. Molly pretended to be sneaky about it while she hovered in the corner, writing on her own skin.

Eventually, Muriel all but snatched Molly's arm away from her, staring at the ink. "What is this, young lady? Are you . . . ? Molly! Do you have a soulmate?"

Molly pretended to be embarrassed as she looked at the fake love note she had written on her own hand. "I . . . I . . . I didn't want you to think I was being silly," she said, scratching her right ankle with her left foot. It looked like a nervous tick, but it was really a signal to her brothers, who magically began writing back on Molly's skin using the Modified Protean Charm.

_I love you too.  
\- Arthur_

Muriel gasped and flung Molly's hand away from her as though she'd been burnt. "Molly Prewett! Do you mean to tell me that Arthur Weasley, of all people, is your soulmate, and you never thought to say a word about this to me? To your father? Young lady, this is not how a woman of worth behaves! Soulmate or not, I know about your little dalliances with that boy, and it stops at once! You tell him to have his father draw up a contract. You are officially courting!"

Fabian and Gideon grinned at the way that Molly pretended to look surprised.

* * *

**November 1970**

Arthur watched in perfect awe as his young wife finally fell asleep. Her labour had been hard, even with all of the potions and charms that the Healers had used on her. William was apparently determined to be a stubborn boy right from the start, but the moment that he came into this world, Arthur's chest nearly burst open from happiness.

It was strange.

He didn't think he'd ever love anyone as much as he loved Molly.

But there it was . . . this strange little person that filled him up with more joy than Arthur could possibly imagine. He wondered if Molly would be opposed to having another.

Leaning forward, Arthur shifted the baby out of Molly's hands, being careful not to wake her. He'd suggested a Sleeping Draught, but she was determined to breastfeed and wouldn't listen to a word the Healers said about whether or not it would be passed to the baby. Already, her protective instincts were on high alert. Arthur found it endearing.

"C'mere, my boy. We're going to let Mummy get some well-deserved sleep."

Just as he pulled Bill out of Molly's grip, a cold chill ran up his spine as he saw it. There, on his wife's skin . . . But it couldn't be? "No . . ." He swallowed hard and stepped closer, lifting the sleeve of her robe to examine it. Arthur's heart beat faster, and he held Bill closer to him, as though he could protect him from it. There was no mistaking what he saw.

A Dark Mark.

A Dark Mark that faded within minutes.

When Molly woke hours later, she smiled over at Arthur, who looked worse for wear. "Did you sleep at all?"

He cleared his throat and reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I've just been keeping watch over you."

She chuckled softly. "You're a good man, Arthur Weasley."

* * *

**1991**

"Do you think Harry Potter could be my soulmate, Mum?"

Molly turned bright red and then ran a hand over her daughter's forehead, pretending to push away a lock of hair as she double-checked that there was no scar in the shape of a lightning bolt. No, Harry Potter was not Ginny's soulmate. She smiled softly. "Even if he's not, you can always love and marry who you want. Remember that."

Molly had created a beautiful life with Arthur filled with love and children, and no silly soulmate would  _ever_ ruin that for her. She had always known she had another, but she never once tried to reach out to them. Scars occasionally appeared on her body. They came heavily during the first war, a great deal of them permanent thanks to Dark curses, but the frequency of soul scars faded over the years. Luckily, most of the time the children noticed one, she was able to pass it off as an accident in the kitchen, or dealing with the gnomes in the garden.

"Isn't that why you married Daddy, though? 'Cause he's your soulmate?"

Sighing, Molly kissed the top of Ginny's head. "I married your father because I loved him. Being my soulmate just made it better, perhaps."

Ginny beamed brightly at her before dashing off, likely to get into more trouble with her brothers. Molly turned around and gasped, shocked to see Percy standing in the doorway, picking nervously at his arm. "Oh, Percy, dear. You gave me a bit of a fright."

He frowned. "You lied to Ginny. Why?"

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I know you and Dad aren't soulmates. Last year, he fell in the shed and cut his leg. He made me swear not to tell you because he cut himself on one of his Muggle things. I came into the house to ask you where the dittany was. You didn't have a soul scar."

Molly swallowed nervously, her eyes drawn to where Percy was scratching. "What's that, dear?"

He pulled away from her. "Nothing."

"You have a soul scar?"

He stared at her suspiciously before slowly nodding.

Molly sighed. "Do you know who it is?"

Again, he nodded.

"Oh, Percy, I know that some people put a lot of faith in soulmates, but you are free to love  _anyone_ you want."

He blushed all the way to the tips of his ears. "Anyone? Anyone at all? And you . . . you won't be disappointed?"

She scoffed, waving her hand flippantly. "So long as they're not . . . a Death Eater, I think your father and I will be happy as long as  _you're_ happy. They don't need to be your soulmate. Unfortunately, when your father and I were younger . . . we needed to . . . to fib a bit . . . so that—"

"Aunt Muriel?" Percy asked with a raised brow.

Molly smiled and kissed his forehead. "My smart boy."

* * *

**May 1998**

"NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!"

Molly threw off her cloak as she spun on the demented witch, moving Ginny and Hermione out of her way with a swipe of her wand. She slashed and twirled viciously, sending every hex and curse that Hogwarts had ever taught her, and a few that she'd picked up from her brothers long ago. Molly felt a jolt of elation at the way that Bellatrix's horrible smile began to falter. Everyone underestimated the silly little housewife. No one remembered that she was a lioness protecting her cubs.

"No!" she cried when a few students ran forward, trying to come to her aid. "Get back! Get back! She is mine!"

"What will happen to your children when I've killed you?" Bellatrix taunted. "When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

Molly's eyes widened and the grip on her wand tightened. "You will never touch our children again!"

She'd barely flicked her wand when she sent the curse out, something she'd never before imagined casting, but had always kept on hand just in case. Just in case of war, apparently. Bellatrix's body toppled over and Molly felt her eyes begin to water, still angry that she'd allowed the woman to come anywhere near any of her children. She swallowed down the pain of Fred's death, knowing that she couldn't deal with it now, not when the rest of her family still needed her. She could fall apart—and likely would—later, when it was finished.

" _Protego_!"

Molly turned, shocked by the sound of Harry's voice. He had been dead only minutes earlier when all hell had broken loose. She fell backward, staring in shock as the boy stood protectively in front of her, shielding her from whatever horrible curse Voldemort had flung her way.

It wasn't just Voldemort that Molly needed to be concerned about, though.

In the corner, Rodolphus Lestrange was seething, covered in burns and blood and looking crazier than ever. The man stalked forward, using the distraction of Harry Potter being alive to make his move. "I'll avenge my wife!" he shouted and aimed his wand at Molly.

Before she could even raise her own wand in defence, a sharp hex hit the Death Eater in the side of the face, splitting his skin clean open and knocking him to the ground, screaming as he clutched at the wound that began to sizzle and bubble. Pushing herself to her feet, Molly looked in the direction of the caster and gasped, shocked to see who her saviour had been.

Rabastan Lestrange stared at the body of his brother curiously, as he twitched on the ground, whimpering in agony. Rabastan looked like a rabid animal, a snake that had bitten its prey and was now playing with its food until the venom kicked in and killed it. Slowly, he turned his gaze up from his crying brother and stared at Molly.

Her mouth fell open in horror and understanding when a smile came over his face and he winked at her.


	18. Forgiven

**1987**

Percy Weasley had always been different.

He did not care to play Quidditch like his siblings, though he did have an appreciation for the game—and the spare coins it earned him when making bets with his brothers. They had a talent for playing it, but Percy enjoyed statistics and numbers and picking the players apart, searching for weaknesses until he could balance the teams against one another, looking for a likely outcome.

He was different in that he appreciated the finer things in life. Not brand new robes like Ron would've wanted, or trips to Gambol and Japes like the twins, or even family vacations like his elder brothers. Though he did share in their inherent desire to get away from the Burrow the very moment that he could. He loved his parents, he did, but Percy liked to have a moment to himself from time to time and that was never afforded to him.

Percy was also different in that the very moment he stepped foot into his Hogwarts dormitory and saw his roommates undress for bed, his cheeks flushed hot and he crawled behind his curtains and shut them quickly in fear that someone would notice. It wasn't odd, in the Wizarding world, to favour boys over girls, but he'd overheard Charlie and his friend Nymphadora once talking about the way that some schoolmates treated his brother. Percy didn't want to draw any amount of negative attention. So he did his best to keep his eyes to himself.

The same could  _not_ be said of Oliver Wood.

"Weasley . . . your brother is . . ." the Quidditch fiend said to him, looking up at the sky from the stands, his eyes locked on Charlie as though they'd been hit with a Sticking Charm, "brilliant. Has he always been so good at Quidditch? He must be. That's natural talent right there, that is. Do you think . . . do you think it would be weird if I—"

"Yes," Percy curtly snapped.

Oliver frowned. "You didn't even know what I was going to say."

"Doesn't matter. That's my  _brother_. It's weird."

* * *

**1989**

Percy knew the words to the Puddlemere United song within the first week of Hogwarts. He didn't  _want_ to know them, but thanks to his overly enthusiastic roommate, he had no choice in the matter. Silencing Charms weren't taught until fifth year. Despite the annoyance that Oliver was, Percy couldn't help but watch in concern as the new Gryffindor Keeper took flight. He was too slight, too small, and couldn't have weighed more than seven stone. Percy twisted his hands in his scarf, ignoring the announcer who was talking, at length, about Charlie. His brother had taken to taunting the Ravenclaw Seeker, and McGonagall was shouting, leaning over the rail and shaking her finger.

Percy's gaze, however, was locked on Oliver, who hovered in front of the goals. He wasn't watching when Charlie and the Ravenclaw collided mid-air and began throwing fists at one another. Instead, he was standing and yelling when the Ravenclaw team made a switch, faked a play, and both Quaffle and Bludger were sent toward the Gryffindor Keeper. Oliver had his eyes locked on the Quaffle, dead set on making sure Ravenclaw didn't score a single point.

He hadn't noticed the Bludger until it cracked against his skull.

"Do you want me to take care of that, dear?" Madam Pomfrey whispered to Percy.

Hours later, the Gryffindor team had finally left the infirmary, but Percy stayed behind. With no one looking, he could reach out and take Oliver's hand in his own without fear of someone teasing him, or of Oliver waking up and recoiling in disgust. Other than the hair, Percy didn't exactly bear a striking resemblance to Charlie.

At the mediwitch's voice, Percy let go of Oliver's hand and reached up to run his fingers over the thick scar on the side of his head. "Yes, please," he said quietly.

Madam Pomfrey smiled. "Secret's safe with me, dear. I've seen my share of soulmates come through this infirmary over the years. He's lucky to have you."

Percy swallowed. "He doesn't have me."

* * *

**1991**

"Are you sure?"

Ron cradled the large rat in his arms as tenderly as a child could. Scabbers looked less than pleased, but Percy wasn't in the mind to care what a rat thought about him right now. Even though it  _had_ been Percy's companion for years. "I'm certain," he said. "One of my roommates doesn't like rats, and to be honest, I don't have the time to care for him the way I should. There's too much work to be done if I'm to make prefect."

Their mother looked apprehensive. "Percy, dear, it's a thoughtful gesture, but you  _do_ realise that—"

"Perhaps having a pet will teach Ronald some responsibility," he suggested even as Ron tried to feed the rat a piece of chocolate from his pocket. "Besides, as I said, it's much too time consuming and—"

"Which roommate?" Charlie asked curiously from the chair he was sharing with Nymphadora, a large book on dragon anatomy sitting open on their legs, though the witch was reading a Muggle comic book.

Percy cleared his throat. "Wood."

"Ollie?" Nymphadora asked, looking up with a grin. "Oh, he's a sweet thing. He'll grow up to be fit, he will."

* * *

**May 1994**

He very rarely took part in the Quidditch celebrations, but even Percy was smiling at the way that the Gryffindors were carrying the team members around the room like heroes. He'd put away his Head Boy badge that was glaring up at him as he overlooked the fact that he knew there was firewhisky in the room. Butterbeer was one thing, but Fred and George were grinning at him from across the common room, so he knew they were up to something. That something was figured out when Seamus Finnegan tried to convince everyone that if they lit a shot of firewhisky aflame, he could drink it. Percy stepped in, snatching up the bottles of alcohol from the third years and shooed them all off to bed, glaring at his twin brothers while he did so.

Once the younger years were locked away for the night, everyone else continued celebrating their victory. Percy, never one to really indulge in this type of socialising, retired to his semi-private rooms. Quidditch was over, but N.E.W.T.s were still coming up, and he needed to prove himself. He'd already sent in a request to apply to the Ministry, desperate to find a halfway decent paying job so he could get out of the Burrow and on a proper career path.

He was seventeen chapters into his Arithmancy text when the door was flung open and Oliver stumbled inside, grinning. "We won," he said joyfully. "Best match of my life."

"Bloodiest," Percy mumbled under his breath, though the corners of his mouth were upturned. "How did you get in here?"

"Penny let me in."

"Obliging girl," Percy said suspiciously, wondering what his ex-girlfriend was playing at. She'd known, long ago, Percy's preferences for men, but together they'd decided to experiment with one another. They were best friends and it seemed safe enough, especially emotionally. Neither were terribly invested in a long term affair, so there would be no broken hearts. "Sober Up is in the cabinet," he said, gesturing to the other side of the room where he'd began storing potions for such occasions. Percy had tried to object early on to the actions of other students, but Penelope said that it would be a good thing for the younger years to trust them to help, if they feared repercussions of going to the hospital wing or, Merlin forbid, improperly brewing it themselves.

Oliver downed the potion and cringed when it took effect. "That's awful," he groaned before walking over and flopping on Percy's bed. "Did you see it? Brilliant, right?"

Percy raised an eyebrow at him. "Of course I saw the game. Every bloodied nose and broken bone."

Oliver laughed. "Wasn't  _that_ bad," he said and reached out, taking Percy's hand. When a breath stuck in his throat, Percy's eyes widened, but before he had a chance to say anything, Oliver whispered, "I know what you are."

Snatching his hand away, Percy glared at Oliver as though he were waiting for a slur or a horrible series of expletives to come out of the other boy's mouth. Instead, Oliver leaned forward and kissed him. A thousand or so thoughts popped into his brain, not the least of which were the list of rules he was currently breaking by snogging someone in his room, a room that rightly should have only ever be accessed by the Head Boy. But Oliver tasted like the mint from the Sober Up Potion and his lips were soft and warm.

Percy was panting when the kiss broke, staring ahead as Oliver licked his lips and grinned. "Wanted to do that for years."

"B-but I . . . I thought you . . . I . . ."

"Did you know that you get more papercuts than anyone I've ever met?"

Percy blinked.

Oliver smiled. "I spent that first year with so many little scars on the tips of my fingers."

"You know."

"I know."

Swallowing nervously, Percy muttered, "You're really . . .  _really_ not supposed to be in here."

Oliver chuckled. "And you never break the rules, do you?"

No. Percy didn't.

But he would. He did. Even as they tugged at their robes, popping buttons in their haste to put skin to skin. While he'd never been a fan of playing Quidditch, Percy had made a decent bit of money on the game over the years. Now, however—as he ran his hands over sculpted abs and the curve of a perfect bicep—he was learning to appreciate the game on a very different level.

* * *

**1996**

Hogwarts love faded quickly, even with soulmates, when the rest of the world began swallowing them whole.

The Ministry occupied Percy's every waking hour. Despite the fact that Mr Crouch couldn't remember Percy's name, he'd promised him a guided path through the ladder of politics, and Percy's salary was already promising to counter his own father's, something he'd learned through whispered water cooler gossip. His family were not looked well upon by the Ministry officials that Percy worked with; it was sink or swim, and Percy hadn't been properly equipt with a lifeboat. It wasn't as though his family could afford one, after all.

Despite being soulmates and briefly lovers, Percy and Oliver did not stay in contact. Oliver had been recruited to Puddlemere United, and so the only time the two saw one another was at games where Percy accompanied Mr Crouch. Of course, when his boss had turned out to be dead, the free tickets to games dried up quickly.

Even if Oliver wasn't busy with his own life, Percy was overwhelmed with the aftermath of the Triwizard Tournament. Death and destruction and an  _actual_ Death Eater had been teaching at Hogwarts in disguise. Dumbledore was clearly out of control. The Minister confided in Percy from time to time, and the new High Inquisitor asked his opinions on what could be done to better the educational experience at the school. Students needed a safe environment to learn, and who better than a former Head Boy to help them construct new Educational Decrees? Flattered that they'd think to ask his opinion, Percy knew better than to contradict a word they said and merely nodded in agreement. They were right, of course. Dumbledore was a loose canon and had put students in danger for years on end. Hell, Percy's baby sister had nearly  _died_ because Dumbledore hadn't done a thing to stop a monster that had been set loose upon the castle.

Percy had to think of his family.

Which was why he left them when they wouldn't see clearly that their allegiance to Dumbledore was wrong and dangerous. Dumbledore didn't care enough to keep Ron and Ginny safe, what would that mean for everyone else that Percy loved? Even Dumbledore's favourite, Harry Potter, spent every single year at the school nearly dying. Percy's parents, however, were stubborn, and his brothers were . . . arses, frankly. He wrote to each of them, pleading with them to make their parents see reason and distance themselves from Dumbledore and Harry Potter, with his nonsense about the return of You-Know-Who. The Minister for Magic declared the Wizarding world safe, and who were  _they_ to question the Ministry? The government was there to protect its citizens . . . wasn't it?

He was passing through the Atrium when he saw a flash of blue and gold, the familiar uniform of Puddlemere United. His heart sped at the sight of Oliver. "Ollie?" he was able to say before a fist sunk hard into the side of his jaw, knocking him clean to the floor.

"You're a right prick, Weasley," Oliver snapped. "I don't know what's happening at Hogwarts with Harry and that lot, but my mum spoke to your mum, and I know what you did. Can't believe my own . . . can't believe someone like you would hurt your mum like that. She's been crying for months, my mother said. What kind of bloke makes his own mum cry?"

Percy glared up at his soulmate, hating himself for remembering in that instance the way that Oliver's bottom lip quivered just before he came. "Someone who looks out for her best interest," he spat, glaring at the blood on the floor.

Oliver shook his head. "You changed. I'm being moved up to first string now. Lots of potential for scars in open play. I'll not be charming a damn thing, so I hope you enjoy that," he said threateningly before storming away and leaving Percy on the floor with the whole Ministry gaping at him.

* * *

The scars weren't so bad.

He did, however, have to lock himself in his office when the Puddlemere United team decided to paint their entire bodies  _blue_ for a game. No charm he could think of was able to get rid of the paint, and it stayed like that for six days.

Eventually, Oliver washed the charmed paint from his skin, and Percy woke to see a note written backward on his forehead so that he could read it in the mirror.

_Fire-call your mum, you twat_

* * *

**May 1998**

" _Crucio_!"

The Death Eater thrashed on the ground in front of him. Percy's face was covered in dirt and debris from the broken castle behind him. Streaks pierced their way down his cheeks from tears shed over a dead brother. The Death Eater in front of him was responsible, and he knew it. He  _knew_ it. The Dark curse fell from his lips easier than anything he'd ever said, and the grief was swallowed up by the pure surge of power he had at his fingertips.

"Percy!"

He ignored the echoing sound of his name as he twisted his wand just slightly, watching as the Death Eater screamed and arched, likely breaking a bone in the process. It wasn't enough. Fred had been crushed by a wall . . . Percy would stand there until the man responsible was just as broken.

"Percy! No!"

He was knocked from his feet and he and his attacker rolled down the hill on the grass until the Death Eater and the broken bits of Gryffindor Tower were no longer in sight. Percy gasped for air as he looked up into the eyes of Oliver Wood, who cupped his face. "Get off me."

"You were using an Unforgivable," Oliver said, shocked.

"That's because I'll never forgive!" he screamed. "That Death Eater murdered my . . . he killed . . ." Great sobs broke through him as Oliver pulled him tight against his chest. "Fred's gone. They killed my little brother, and I couldn't do anything. I wasn't there for . . . for years. I . . . I didn't know I was wrong. I was wrong."

* * *

**2008**

The Burrow had been magically extended when the grandchildren began coming along. Years after the war were spent healing and rebuilding. Bill had been quick to start repopulating the Wizarding world, though the rest of his siblings seemed to be taking their time. Like Percy. However, the children that his parents had taken in over the years brought their own broods with them to the Burrow, filling it with grandchildren whether they be Weasley or not.

Hell, there was even a Malfoy.

The children played in the field, some game where Charlie was pretending to be a great, evil dragon that they were all trying to destroy. Harry and Daphne's boys each had a hold of Charlie's legs, and Teddy Lupin had managed to climb Charlie's back to wrap his arms around his neck.

It was Hermione's son, however, that posed the most trouble as he carefully judged the situation before walking up and punching Charlie in the groin, causing him to topple to the ground. "Scorpius!" Hermione shouted and both she and Harry ran to help, leaving their spouses behind to snicker.

Turning his attention away from the children, Percy sighed. "That is unseemly," he muttered irritably.

Ron, sitting next to him, glanced up and groaned when he followed Percy's line of sight, where Ginny was lying near the pond with Astoria straddled over her lap. "Ugh. Animals."

"Aww, leave them alone. They're in love." Susan laughed. "At least they're clothed this time."

"Only because there are kids around. Oi! Get a room!"

Molly walked outside, carrying a tray of treats for the children. She sighed dramatically and then shouted, "Ginevra Weasley!" When Astoria jumped at the sound of Molly's voice, Ginny held her in place defiantly. Molly grumbled. "That girl, I swear. Children! Everyone come and eat! Ronald, come and help me and don't just sit there like a log."

Ron huffed. "Why can't Percy help? He's just as much of a log as I am."

Molly threw her youngest son a withering look. "Percy is nervous."

"I'm fine, mother."

"There's nothing to be worried about dear. We all just  _adore_ Oliver. He was friends with most of the people here—"

"I'm not worried, mother."

"—such a sweet boy. His mother is lovely as well. Did you know that she and I became quite good friends during the war?"

Percy snorted and rubbed at his jaw that still popped whenever it rained. "Oh, I'm very well aware that you're on speaking terms with Mrs Wood."

Molly turned toward her son at his tone. "And what is  _that_ supposed to—"

_Crack!_

"Oliver's here," Percy said quickly and stood. "I better go and greet him. Make sure he gets through the wards all right." Before his mother could say another word, Percy was dashing off as quickly as he could without breaking into a full run, the sight of Oliver smiling at him in the distance.

They'd kept in touch, the years after the war, but Percy had gone a long time without wanting to be close to anyone. He blamed himself for Fred's death, and it had taken George kidnapping him for a pub crawl—that ended with both Weasley brothers vomiting in the Thames, wearing hula skirts and mismatched boots and not much else—to snap him out of his guilt ridden grief. Ron's wedding, followed quickly by Ginny's exhibitionist behaviour with her new girlfriend had made the jealousy stir so badly in Percy that he'd finally reached out to Oliver in the way of a formal invitation to dinner, sent by owl. Oliver had replied back through their soulmate connection, black ink forming on Percy's arm.

_Took you long enough._


	19. Matching

**1987**

"One of these days, I'm not going to even bother healing your injuries," Molly said. The exasperation was written all over her face as she dabbed dittany onto George's cut nose. The burn on Fred's right cheek was already fixed, but he was scratching at it still. "That would teach you both to stay out of trouble. Not to mention you wouldn't be able to play tricks on me by switching!"

"You're the one who can't tell the difference between her own sons," Fred glibly remarked, earning him a stern glare from his mother. "Just saying."

"Off you go. And for the last time, stop messing about with those garden gnomes. Either get rid of the pesky things or leave them be! They are not to be trifled with."

George smirked. "Gnome trifle? That sounds tasty!"

"Meaty," Fred agreed, and they both ducked their heads when their mother threw a tea towel at them.

"You hear that, Freddie?" George whispered as they made their way upstairs.

Fred nodded. "Mum's in a mood. Think she'll actually stop using the dittany on us?"

"We'll have to stock up."

"Or learn to make it ourselves."

* * *

Charlie stared at the scene in the kitchen that he walked in on. Fred had a bandage wrapped around his right hand. George, however, injury free—temporarily—was holding  _his_ right hand above the cooker. The flame was lit, and the twins both stood there staring at their older brother, waiting.

Sighing, Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should really stop whatever idiot thing this is, shouldn't I?"

George grinned. "You'd really only be delaying it."

"Do I want to know?"

Fred smirked. "Mum finally hid the dittany—"

"—And we haven't figured out how to properly brew it yet," George finished. "So until we can heal our own injuries, we've got to match." Before Charlie could even think of reacting to the ridiculousness of his twin brothers, George swung his hand down, burning it against the cooker to match whatever injury Fred had previously obtained.

* * *

**1990**

"Right, so what do we do then?" Fred asked, his fingers steepled together in deep thought.

George faced him, sitting cross-legged on the bed in their dormitory. Lee and the other roommates had been ushered out because the twins needed to have a private conversation after they'd spotted Angelina Johnson walking around with a fresh soul scar on her elbow that perfectly matched the ones that Fred and George had received that morning in Potions, when a dash too much leech juice fell into one of their cauldrons of Shrinking Solution. The burner had been too high—because George was testing something—and the extra bit of leech was too much, splashing out of the cauldron and onto his skin, burning it. As was habit now, Fred automatically—and specifically—splashed the boiling mixture on himself, which ended up sending both twins to the infirmary for some burn paste.

"So she's our soulmate," Fred said. "Or at least—"

"—One of us is hers. Which of us do you think it is?" George asked.

They frowned. It had been something discussed before, what would happen when they grew up and started dating. They'd taken a fancy to several different girls, and while Fred had his first snog with Katie Bell in a third-floor broom cupboard, George had his with Lisa Turpin outside the greenhouses following Herbology. They'd taken girls to Hogsmeade and always stayed together, but something as serious as a soulmate wasn't to be thought about flippantly. Soulmates, when romanced, were forever.

"Never thought about the future much. Not like that," Fred admitted.

George frowned. "Growing up, getting married."

"Having our own kids underfoot," Fred said with a laugh. "You think . . . I mean . . . it'll happen eventually, and we'll have to be apart. Won't we?"

"I don't like that, Freddie. Not one bit. But if Angie's—"

"What if she's meant for us both?" Fred asked, eyes wide. "Why couldn't she? Triads are perfectly normal! Especially for twins! I say she's  _our_ soulmate, and we'll never need to know otherwise because we share the same scars, yeah?"

George grinned brightly. "Ours."

"Er . . . maybe we oughta run that by her, first?"

"That'd be safest."

* * *

**1996**

"I'm Captain," Angelina said as George pushed her up against the wall near the pitch after Quidditch practice. "I'm supposed to be setting a good example for the rest of the team." She giggled when his mouth found a particularly delightful spot near her right ear. "I should make you both fly laps."

Fred grinned on her other side, his hands roaming down her ribs to settle on her hips. "You could punish us in  _other_ ways," he suggested, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Angelina laughed. "Shut up and kiss me, you dolt. George is way ahead of you over here."

"Yeah well,  _I_ got to take you to the Yule Ball," Fred said with a laugh. "It's only fair he gets in a few gropes now and then to make up for all the times I grabbed your arse that night."

* * *

**July 1997**

"Want me to owl her?" Fred asked quietly. "Mum said she could come because . . . well, we pretty much begged, but it's not like Bill or Fleur will miss her if she skips out on the wedding."

George rested his head on the pillow, the left side still wrapped up in bandages after losing his ear. While he joked and laughed in the other room, mostly to try and get his family to stop crying over him, the severity of the situation hit hard when he and Fred were finally alone together, no longer identical. Fred had suggested removing his ear as well, but it was a Dark curse that George had been hit with and, despite the trouble they'd gotten into over the years—not to mention the self-admitted bullying they'd participated in—the twins had never once used Dark Magic. The idea was shut down immediately, which ended up prompting their current conversation.

"You'd marry us both, right, Angie?" Fred had once begged their girlfriend, when the three of them had snuck away to the dorms, Lee—the most obliging best friend in the history of the world—guarding outside.

Naked between the twins, Angelina stretched her arms out, lazy and catlike, before draping them over Fred's shoulders and kissing him soundly. "Don't be stupid," she whispered. "You know I love you both."

George sighed happily, his lips pressed against her shoulder. "Because you're our soulmate."

"No," Angelina insisted. "It's because I'm just that amazing."

And she was. She was perfect and lovely and oh so very theirs . . . but . . .

"If she doesn't have a scar on her ear—"

"Don't," Fred said.

"Dark Curse, Freddie," George said with a small smile. "Can't charm that away for good. Vanish it temporarily, sure, but . . . eventually, we'll know the truth. If she's got the scar, then she's mine and if she doesn't—"

"She's ours. We're hers. Doesn't make a lick of difference to me."

* * *

**May 1998**

In the aftermath of battle, George and Angelina clung to one another. While Bill and Percy had to literally pry him from Fred's side, George had been the one to catch Angelina when she collapsed to the ground in grief. They wept and grieved together, both furious and empty at the feel of the loss. He cradled her against his chest and ran his hands down the braids of her hair, tucking a few behind an ear that most certainly did  _not_ have a scar.

He didn't react. The loss of a soulmate that never really was his to begin with, didn't seem to matter now.

* * *

**2010**

"You're an idiot, y'know," Oliver said as he took a seat next to George.

Astoria and Ginny were dancing in the middle of the room, both wearing white—which George thought was the funniest thing in the world since everyone in the family had walked in on the two shameless witches having sex at least once.

Harry was passing a crying Lily into Teddy's arms, even as Victoire sighed dramatically, obviously wanting to dance but not wanting to do so alone. Scorpius and Albus were in the corner, whispering to one another mischievously, drawing the attention of both Daphne and Hermione, who was nudging Draco with her elbow to put a stop to whatever potentially horrific thing the boys were planning.

Charlie, Bill, and Viktor were pouring shots of firewhisky, while Fleur and Pansy talked animatedly with one another, each with a toddler hitched up on a hip. On the other side of the room, Angelina was smiling politely while Percy related to her something . . . something that was likely boring the poor witch to tears.

" _I'm_  the idiot?" George asked his friend and brother-in-law. "You're the one who left Percy alone with Angelina. If he bores her to death, it's you she'll be haunting for the rest of your life."

Oliver laughed along with him and then waited a few minutes in silence, watching George's gaze follow Angelina across the room. "She loves you, y'know."

George briefly tensed and reached up, scratching at the skin where his ear used to be. Before he had a chance to say anything, Oliver punched him in the shoulder. "Ow! Arsehole."

"The family's getting damned close to staging an intervention."

"Not like I could've asked her on a date lately anyhow!" George defended. "She ran off to bloody Egypt to train with Bill's old mentor. Do you know how much it costs to travel—" he tried to say, but Oliver just raised a brow at him, as though he already had the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes vault statements to show him. George wanted for nothing these days; monetarily, at least. "She's been busy."

"She ran away, and you just . . . well, I wouldn't call it moving on, exactly."

" _I've_  been busy. If you haven't noticed lately, none of my siblings can be trusted to run their own lives. Bill's got Fleur to manage him, of course, but Charlie's a mess, and Ron and Sue are just . . . pregnant, I think," he said thoughtfully. "Can't really tell since  _he's_  the one who's gaining the weight, but . . . and Ginny—"

"Just got married," Oliver said.

"Exactly! You think she put that bouquet together on her own?"

"Your mum put the flowers together."

"And don't get me started on Percy," George said dramatically. "I hear he ran off and eloped with some Quidditch nut and got caught snogging in the Puddlemere United locker rooms—the photographs are in a very secure place, by the way," he assured him.

Not rising to the bait, Oliver put his arm around George's shoulders and turned his face back toward Angelina. "She  _loves_ you," he reiterated.

Groaning, George ran his hands through his hair. "We had a plan, Freddie and me . . . and it's just all gone to shit. She was  _his_ soulmate you know."

"And she's the love of  _your_ life," Oliver defended. "Soulmates don't make a damned bit of difference if you aren't willing to work at it. Hell, look at Malfoy over there sitting next to Harry. Those two still can barely stand each other, but they do it because they—"

"Married their soulmates."

"Because they love their wives," Oliver corrected. "Go over there and talk to her, mate. If you don't, we've all agreed to stop interfering when your mum asks about setting you up."

Sighing, George stood under the threat of his meddling mother and made his way across the room. "Percy, your husband's going blind. He's just spent the last five minutes feeling up my thigh. Either he thought I was you or he's taken with my beauty, and you're too much of a bore in bed to keep the man satisfied. Then again, he might have a sex addiction. Or a ginger addiction. One can't be too sure—"

"Please stop talking," Percy said and rolled his eyes at George before nodding his head toward Angelina and then quietly making his escape.

"You're an idiot," Angelina said with a small smile.

George smirked. "So I'm told."

"I miss him too," she blurted out.

Cringing, George closed his eyes at the old familiar pain in his chest that eased as the days and years went on, but never truly ever went away. He opened his eyes to see her standing closer than before, right up against him.

"I miss  _you_ more," she whispered and pressed her forehead to his.

George let out a heavy sigh—part guilty, part relieved—as he reached out and settled his hands on her waist. Music was playing in the background as the brides behind them swayed happily on the dance floor. "Of course you missed me," he finally said softly. "I'm a delight, aren't I?"

Angelina smiled. "You're a right pain in my arse, you are."

* * *

**2011**

"What do we do with it?"

"I've been told we're supposed to raise it into a somewhat passable human being," she said sarcastically as she cradled their son in her arms. Twenty some odd hours of labour and the stubborn little creature finally made his way into the world, much to the elation of his mother, and the outright shock of his father, who was doing his best to joke his way through the worst of his worries.

"He looks like you," George said with a smile.

Angelina smiled. "He's got your nose and ears."

George lifted a brow.

Angelina rolled her eyes. "Ear," she corrected.

"Hey, Angie? Do you . . . do you think we could name—"

"Wouldn't dream of calling him anything else."


	20. Sorted

**2007**

Green flames lit up the foyer of Malfoy Manor as Ginny Weasley stepped into the old mansion. She'd been invited over plenty of times by Hermione since marrying the ferret and popping out his adorable spawn—that Ginny genuinely loved—but the redhead had yet to make an appearance in the manor other than at official parties. She preferred stopping by unannounced in the hopes of catching Draco's parents being . . . human. The thought was hilarious.

"What are  _you_ doing here?"

Ginny looked up and raised a brow as her girlfriend entered the foyer from around the corner. "Hermione invited me . . . at some point in the past, I dunno; what are  _you_ doing here?"

Astoria smirked and greeted Ginny with a kiss. "Watching the boys. Harry and Daphne were originally, since the Malfoys all went on holiday to France. Which you'd know if you owled before breaking and entering," she said with a laugh.

"I've broken nothing yet," Ginny insisted. "Wait, so Harry and your sister were watching the boys but now you are?"

"James had a little accidental magic issue and had to go to St. Mungo's. I was already visiting and offered to watch Albus and Scorpius since I didn't think they'd want to deal with three children in the hospital."

Frowning, Ginny asked, "Nothing too serious?"

"No," Astoria assured her. "He lit a curtain on fire, and it fell on his leg. Daph took care of the burn, but they were worried the curtain rod might've fractured something when it hit him. I just put the boys in the playroom, do you want to come in as an invited guest and not a sneaky intruder?"

Sticking her fingers through the belt loops in Astoria's trousers, Ginny pouted. "That seems less fun." At her girlfriend's stern glance, she sighed. "Fine. But before I leave, I'm going to go up to Lucius Malfoy's bathroom and write on his mirror with my finger so that when it gets all foggy, it reads 'You're a taint'." It felt like a victory when Astoria laughed, despite trying desperately not to.

Walking into the playroom, Ginny dove for Albus first since Scorpius had once thrown up in her mouth when he was three months old, and she'd yet to completely forgive the toddler. "Look at you! Messy boy!" She laughed at the designs that Albus had drawn all over his face with the packet of markers that Astoria had clearly left open.

"Ugh, those better wash off," Astoria said, reaching for Scorpius. "Uh oh."

Ginny spun around. "Wha—oh my gods!" she exclaimed and then grinned brightly. "This is hilarious."

Astoria stared at the boys, biting her lower lip nervously. "Should I owl my sister? Or Hermione?"

Still giggling, which both little boys had joined in on, Ginny shook her head. "No way. Harry and Draco will probably freak out and start acting differently. It's better when parents don't get involved. Just look how normal  _we_ are. Let the kids figure it out on their own and go from there."

Nodding in agreement, Astoria shifted closer to Ginny. "Here, give me Albus and take Scorp. It looks like Al's the only one with  _actual_ marker on his face. I'll go get him cleaned up."

Ginny took Scorpius carefully in her arms and smiled as she watched Astoria leave the playroom. "All right there, little ferret?" she asked and grinned when Scorpius pretended to be a ferret by showing her his front teeth and mimicked biting her. "Now, why don't you show me where your grandpa's bathroom is?"

* * *

**September 2017**

The first of September came all too quickly for Hermione, who was digging her nails into Draco's arm as they crossed onto platform nine and three-quarters. Both she and her husband hadn't slept a wink the night before. The world had changed drastically since the end of the war, but not as much as they would've liked. While hate crimes against Muggle-borns were now  _officially_ illegal, it didn't erase the blood prejudice that still unfortunately existed. That, and people still occasionally sent Howlers to the manor addressed to "Draco the Death Eater"—Lucius likely got his own in the Parisian villa that he and Narcissa had moved to years earlier.

Thankfully, it was only typical first year jitters that had Scorpius nervous. "What if it makes a mistake?"

"It won't," Draco assured his son, placing a hand on his shoulder. "The Sorting Hat knows where to put you."

"Grandfather said that every Malfoy ever has gone to Slytherin," Scorpius whispered, his brown eyes scanning the platform. "But I could . . . what if it puts me somewhere else? What if it  _knows_ that I don't belong there and—"

"Then you'll fit in wherever the hat puts you," Hermione said, kneeling down and fixing the top button of Scorpius's coat. She pushed her thumb affectionately against the small scar in the middle of his chin, the one he briefly shared with Albus from an accident at a Burrow picnic when the boys had roughhoused  _too_ roughly. "I'm going to miss you so much."

She stood up just as Scorpius was assaulted from behind; Albus Potter jumped on his best friend's back, knocking him to the ground. They were a pile of laughs, and Draco rolled his eyes, reaching out to shake Harry's hand when he and Daphne approached.

"Good to see them in a happy mood," Harry remarked.

Daphne huffed. "We had to have the Slytherin versus Gryffindor talk last night."

Hermione nodded in commiseration. "I'll make a formal complaint if that old hat separates them," she said firmly.

Harry smirked at her. "You should teach Scorpius to say 'just wait until my mother hears about this.'"

"Hilarious, Potter," Draco drawled, rolling his eyes. "Get your trunks on the train, boys. You'll want to find a good compartment for the ride up. Stay away from the ones in the back," he suggested. "They're usually filled with terrible people."

Harry threw his head back and laughed. "Really, Malfoy? Terrible? We really couldn't tell considering how often you made the long walk to come and visit us every single year."

"Hermione," Draco said through clenched teeth. "Deal with that."

Daphne and Hermione, however, were grinning. "Stop Harry's flirting? Never. It's adorable."

* * *

"SLYTHERIN!"

Scorpius breathed a sigh of relief at the Sorting Hat's decision and practically ran to the table at the far end of the Great Hall. He wanted to be quick so that he could watch Albus be sorted, hopefully taking up the seat beside him under the green and silver banners.

"Blood-traitor," a boy from down the hall murmured, and a few girls giggled in reply. Scorpius turned his head to see all eyes were on him. "You don't belong here."

Narrowing his eyes and sneering in an expression that perfectly mimicked his father, Scorpius lifted his chin proudly. "Malfoys have been sorted into Slytherin since forever."

"Maybe," the boy retorted, "but you're not  _really_ a Malfoy. You're just some Mudblood's rubbish."

Scorpius opened his mouth to say something. He'd been sat down a few years earlier to have his questions about his parents' soul scars answered. When he and Albus figured out that they were soulmates, each set of parents—in addition to the plethora of aunts and uncles they had—taught them about soul scars. Scorpius, however, had to learn about more than just the marks he and Albus would forever share; he learned what the scars his  _parents_ shared meant, and why "Mudblood" was a word to never be used.

Before Scorpius could say or do anything to defend his mother, the Great Hall burst into a roar of cheers and good-natured boos from the Gryffindor table when the Sorting Hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!" once more, and Albus Potter joined his best friend and soulmate.

"Told you they wouldn't split us," Albus said with a happy grin. "All right, Scorp?"

Scorpius forced a smile. "Fine."

* * *

**2020**

"Mum? Can I talk to you?"

Daphne smiled down at her son, the twinkling lights from the Christmas tree made her blond hair look like spun gold. Seeing the look on Albus's face, however, made her smile all but vanish. "What's wrong, love?"

Harry looked up from his chair where he'd been going over the latest statistics from the new batch of Aurors in training. His brow furrowed in concern. "What's going on?"

Albus sighed and toed the floor. "I want to talk to Mum. It's a . . . it's a Slytherin thing. You wouldn't understand. I . . . Gryffindors are too . . . I dunno."

Harry threw Daphne a look, and she sighed. "How about you tell us both what's wrong, and your father promises not to say a word until I've answered you?"

"You can't tell Aunt Hermione," Albus insisted. "Promise me."

Green eyes widened. "Albus, what's happened?"

"What if you know a secret, but you're not supposed to? And . . . and you shouldn't tell the secret, but it might be . . . but it's important? What's better, to help someone, or to be loyal?"

Daphne sighed and shook her head, looking at her husband. "This is your area, love."

Harry reached out and put a hand on Albus's shoulder. "Helping someone, especially a friend,  _is_ being loyal to them."

It took a few more minutes of silence, but slowly, Albus pulled back the sleeve of his shirt. "Something's wrong with Scorpius," he said, showing the soul scars he had on his arm.

* * *

Draco was shaking.

"Go," Hermione quietly encouraged. "Get it out before you accidentally Apparate to Hogwarts and Harry has to arrest you." The former Death Eater stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Hermione sighed and scrubbed her hands down her face. "I should have known. I should have seen the signs and—"

"Hermione, the kids are gone for nine months out of the year. Don't blame yourself for this," Harry said, reaching out to take his best friend's hand in support.

"I don't blame myself, I blame them!" she snapped. "All those ugly old families that are still— _STILL_ —teaching children to hate each other based on blood status and . . ."

"It's not just the purebloods," Daphne said. "Albus told us that Scorpius gets bullied by the upperclass Slytherins because he's half-blood, but there are some kids in the other Houses that pick on him because of Draco. The fact that they recently started covering the war in History of Magic likely isn't helping matters. We've already written to McGonagall."

"I asked Neville to get the Gryffindors in order," Harry added. "James didn't even know it was happening or you know he would've intervened. All the Weasley kids too."

"I have a few letters to write myself," Hermione insisted when a loud crash was heard from down the hall, the sound of broken glass hitting the marble floor. Sighing softly, she reached her hand out toward Daphne. "Do you mind?" she asked, looking away as Harry's wife vanished away the plethora of new soul scars from Hermione's knuckles.

* * *

The gathered Slytherins stared up at their new Head of House— _Heads_  of House, really. "I don't get it," a fifth year girl said. " _She_  wasn't a Slytherin." The majority of the other students nodded their head in agreement. An eagle in the snake pit put them on edge.

"Not in this life, no," Luna said with a bright smile, "but I was once bitten by a fire cobra."

Theo sighed lightly, watching in mild amusement as his wife addressed their students. They'd been offered the jobs previously. When Slughorn retired for the second time, Potions Master became the position that wouldn't stay filled, while the curse on Defence Against the Dark Arts was obviously broken. Despite not returning the final year to sit his N.E.W.T.s, Theo and Luna had taken up with a variety of people around the world that taught them everything from rare potions to Aztec star charting. They'd put off returning to Britain for many years, eager to enjoy their travels for as long as possible. However, when Draco had written telling them that Slytherin House was in danger of returning to the old ways, Luna told her husband that the winds had changed and it was time to return home.

Putting an end to the bullying was first on Theo's list of things to do.

"Oh good," Luna said with a happy smile. "The bog pixies have moved in." Her bright eyes were focused on a corner in the dungeons that appeared completely empty. "Be careful," she said softly. "They dislike foul language and contention."

* * *

Professors Nott had been on the other side of the castle the next time Scorpius was cornered in the dungeons. However, the first snarled "Mudblood" followed by a shove ended with two sixth years screaming in terror and swinging their fists around in the air as some invisible force attacked them.

"Just as I thought," Luna said as she looked over the wounded bullies in the infirmary. "Bog pixies."

"Shame that extracting the venom is more painful than the bite," Theo commented dryly, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Still . . . it's a rare potion ingredient. I bet we could brew something exquisite. Won't that be fun, boys?"

The bullies lowered their gaze and then hissed in pain when Luna began healing their wounds.

* * *

Albus crawled into Scorpius's bed and tucked himself in the same way he used to when they were little, tugging on the blanket until he was wrapped up and warm and Scorpius was only half covered. The blond scratched at his blemish free arm and smiled. "Did you see their faces?" he asked with a laugh.

"Aunt Luna can be scary," Albus commented with a snort.

A few moments passed in silence.

"You told."

Sighing, Albus nodded. "You wouldn't even talk to  _me_ about it."

Scorpius rolled over and reached for a bag on the side of his bed, pulling it up and settling it between them. "Mum and Dad sent sweets," he said, digging his hand into the bag.

Albus made a face. "It's not that sugar-free rubbish again, is it?"

" _Dad_  sent the sweets," Scorpius clarified, pulling out several chocolate frogs and chuckling when the first card he got was Harry Potter. "Mum sent a twelve-page letter telling me in great detail just how very much she loves me."

Cringing, Albus looked over at his friend apologetically. "To be fair, I only told  _my_ parents and—"

"Front  _and_ back. Twelve pages."

Unable to stop himself, Albus laughed. "I love your mum. She's—"

"Thanks," Scorpius whispered and reached out to grip Albus's hand, lacing their fingers together..


	21. Fairytale

**2004**

"This means I'll know him or her when I see them, doesn't it?"

Teddy stared at his face in the mirror with hope in his  _currently_ green eyes. Green because Harry was standing behind him, and Teddy had yet to be able to control his morphing abilities when around other people. His hair was black as night, and he looked more like Harry's son than the baby in the other room did.

While Teddy grinned happily, Harry was frowning. His hands were still shaking.

The werewolves were granted rights thanks to Hermione and Neville, and after the celebration, Harry and Teddy had left the Leaky Cauldron, bidding their friends and family goodnight. Harry should have been faster, should have known that someone out there would be angry about what had happened that day in the Wizengamot. Teddy was almost just as famous as Harry had been as a child, though much better protected. Still, the offspring of a werewolf was the perfect target for a message to be sent by people who didn't want to see equal rights given to creatures.

Harry had yanked Teddy into his arms protectively, just as the curse flew at them. It missed Teddy's chest—the intended target—but scraped the side of his cheek in the process. Nothing fatal—at least for Teddy; the attacker couldn't say the same once the fight ended—but the scar was permanent.

Harry saw the mark as a reminder that, despite the war being long over, he still had people he couldn't always protect. As a new father, it terrified him. Teddy, however, saw the mark as something he'd been wanting since he could remember: a guide to his soulmate.

" _Your mum was my soulmate," Charlie had told him many times, sharing scars and blemishes and stories of written letters and pranks that happened long ago. Teddy could remember placing his small hand over the scar over Charlie's heart. "The last one."_

" _Did you love her?"_

_Charlie smiled. "She was my best friend."_

" _What about my dad?"_

" _He had his own soulmate out there . . . somewhere. I don't know who they were. But he loved your mum. Hearts and souls are different. A soulmate can be someone you grow up to marry, like your grandparents, or they can be someone you just love; a best friend, like your mum and me."_

"I'll be like you and Daphne," Teddy said excitedly. "When I see someone with my soul scar, I'll know them right away. And then I'll take care of them forever, like you do with Daphne. Like Grandma and Grandpa did. Like aunt Hermione and Draco, Uncle Ron and Sue, and—"

Harry sighed softly and hugged Teddy tightly from behind. "I hope you get the best soulmate ever, Ted. No one deserves it more than you."

He didn't say so out loud, but Teddy quite agreed.

* * *

When they arrived at the Burrow for the family dinner, Teddy rushed into the house. "Where's Vic? Granny Molly, where's Victoire!?"

"Don't run in the house, Teddy . . . Teddy? What's that on your face? Harry!"

"We had an accident after the Wizengamot session, Molly. He's fine. It's all taken care of," Harry assured her, holding out baby James as a distraction, grinning when the older witch squealed in delight at the prospect of holding the new baby Potter.

Teddy ran headlong into Victoire, knocking her to the ground. "Ow! Teddy!" she groaned at the impact, rubbing her head. "What're you running for?" He pushed her a bit, tilting her head to the side as she objected, tugging at his hair with a laugh, thinking that they were playing. When a deep frown came over him, Victoire stopped laughing. "What's wrong?"

He sighed sadly and muttered, "You're not it."

* * *

**2006**

"And what's rule number one?" Andromeda asked her grandson as they stepped out of the Floo into the hallway of St. Mungo's maternity ward.

"Pick a colour," Teddy replied. When his grandmother gave him a look, he winced. "Oh, wait, that's Muggle rules. Umm . . . stay calm and don't cause a scene?"

She nodded, smiled, and then took his hand in hers, leading the boy down the long corridor where a group of friends and family were gathered, overflowing out of the doorway of a room at the end. Catching sight of her nephew and his wife, Andromeda offered a polite smile. "Hello, Hermione. Draco."

Hermione turned and smiled, one hand resting on her large stomach. "Oh, Andromeda, they'll be so glad to see you and Teddy."

"What've they named him?"

"Albus Severus," Draco said, snorting as he tried to contain his laughter even as his wife pinched his arm.

Teddy slipped past the grownups, squeezing himself into the room, his heart racing at the prospect of meeting someone new, someone who could possibly, maybe, potentially be . . . "He's not it," Teddy said, his shoulders slumping forward as he locked his gaze on the small, black-haired child in his godfather's arms.

* * *

**2007**

"Are you sure?" Harry asked Daphne.

She looked concerned, reaching up to touch the lightning bolt soul scar on her forehead. "It'll be different, I know it will," she said softly. "Still . . . I spent my whole childhood being terrified of this thing and what it meant. I didn't want that for our kids, but—"

"It's different," Harry agreed. "Do you want me to let him in?"

Daphne shook her head. "I'm still tired."

Kissing her forehead, Harry smiled once more at his wife before stepping out of the room with the bundle in his arms. Their family and friends were in a room down the hall, but Hermione stood outside with Teddy, waiting as instructed. The boy nervously toed the floor with his beat up trainers, relaxing only when Hermione squeezed his shoulder.

Harry smiled down at his godson. "Teddy," he said as he knelt down, "I want you to meet Lily."

Peering carefully into the pink bundle, Teddy chewed on his bottom lip until he saw it: a soul scar on the newborn's cheek that matched his own. His nervous expression split into a wide, happy grin, and he looked up at Harry and promised, "I'll take care of her."

* * *

**September 2017**

"Lily!"

"Go away, Teddy!"

"Lily, I—Ah!" He ducked when a rock was thrown at his head. His blue eyes widened in shock as the little witch stormed away from him, running into Malfoy Manor where the family had agreed to meet up after putting all the other kids on the train. "What did I do?"

Draco put a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "I'll give you a hint: she's a pretty blonde that's on her way to Hogwarts right now."

Teddy frowned. "Vic? Lily's upset because Victoire is gone? She doesn't even like Vic —Oooh!"

"James told us he caught you two snogging," Hermione said, flicking Teddy's ear from behind. "Add that to the fact that she's heartbroken over you leaving for Egypt—"

"That's where my apprenticeship is," Teddy defended. "I . . . it's a  _really_ good opportunity for me. Bill and Angelina both said—"

"It is," Hermione said with a soft smile. "Lily's still young and doesn't understand. Add that to the fact that she thinks she's in love with you and . . . well . . ."

"She's young," Draco echoed his wife. "Plus, she's been on a soulmate kick lately, asking a lot of questions about what it meant for us. The fact that her parents are soulmates has kind of put fairytale dreams in her head."

"Charlie and my mum were just friends. I . . . I didn't know," Teddy said with a sigh and ran his hands through his turquoise hair. "Should I go and talk to her? Tell her that we're only friends?" At both Draco and Hermione's incredulous looks, Teddy groaned. "She'll throw more things at my head; got it."

* * *

**2024**

"My husband is the most famous Seeker in the world," Pansy argued, glaring at the redhead.

"Then let  _him_ give her tips on how to fly. She's a chaser, for one," Ginny retorted, "a position I played professionally, and she's  _my_ niece!"

"She's  _my_ blood! And in  _my_ former House!"

"You didn't even play Quidditch for Slytherin!"

Lily sighed at her aunts as she hovered on her broom. Her Quidditch robes were well worn and dirty from the last match of the year. Losing the Cup for her House had riled her up to the point of asking for help from her family. Both Ginny and Pansy jumped at the chance, but they'd barely stepped foot onto the grass outside Potter Manor before descending into a typical fight. "I'm going to go inside until you're done," Lily announced, slipping off her broom, the shouting witches not even noticing.

"How bad?" Harry asked with a smirk as his daughter strolled into the kitchen and plopped onto a chair at the counter. He reached into the cooling cabinet, retrieving a butterbeer and handing it to her. Lily just gave him a look, and he laughed. "I've got something that might cheer you up."

Her eyes brightened and she reached up, snagging the letter in her father's hands with Seeker-like reflexes. Teddy's familiar handwriting popped out on the page. He'd spent two years in Egypt learning to be a Curse-Breaker before a cave-in that cost the life of one of his friends had him reconsidering his career options. It didn't help that he and Victoire broke up early into her seventh year at Hogwarts. Teddy stayed away from Britain, travelling between there and Romania—where he'd accepted an internship working alongside Charlie.

_Lils,_

_Sorry I couldn't come home to see you off the train this year. Charlie and I have been working hard with a pair of Chinese Fireballs that were used in an illegal fighting ring. Both dragons were cursed during their training, so I actually get to use some of what I learned in Egypt. Isn't that awesome? I miss you. I want to bring you to Romania soon and show you around. You'd love it here. Sorry about the injuries I got recently, by the way. I hope they didn't last long or embarrass you. They were pretty bad for me, actually. In fact, I had to be sent out of country to see a specialist since our Healers here aren't familiar with Metamorphmagus physiology. Luckily, the people at St. Mungo's know what they're doing and—_

Lily looks up, blue eyes wide as she stared at her father, gasping. "St. Mungo's!?"

Harry grinned and gestured over her shoulder.

Lily spun around and excitement filled her at the sight of Teddy standing behind her, his leg in a cast.

"Wow," he said, staring at her in shock. Had she always been  _that_ beautiful? "You . . . has it really been that long? You look so—"

"Teddy!" she screamed and flung herself into his arms.

The wizard felt his cheeks heat up at the contact, and he glanced up at Harry, who sighed dramatically before giving him a look that appeared equal parts "stern father" and "approving godfather" before leaving the room. Feeling somewhat mollified, Teddy relaxed and hugged Lily closer.

* * *

_Have a great game._

_I'm going to have an amazing game. We're going to slaughter Hufflepuff._

Teddy laughed at the note on his arm and finished dressing for work. There was a lot to do around the dragon reserve, and he was desperate to get ahead of his tasks. He'd promised Lily a summer-long holiday in Romania once she graduated; a promise that had taken pleading with Harry and Daphne with assurances that their daughter wouldn't come home either permanently injured by a dragon, or pregnant.

While Teddy certainly wasn't ready for  _that_ step, the ring he kept on him at all times was burning a hole in the pocket of his robes.

The grin on his face gave him away and his workmates chuckled at his expense, Charlie included. "Merlin, you look like your mum when you're in love," he said. "I'll let you pensieve a memory of mine so you can see for yourself. She was stupid over your dad. It was hilarious."

"You're all just jealous because the prettiest girl in the world loves me," Teddy said. Considering his first and only other girlfriend had been part veela, his opinion on beauty was something people took as fact. He smirked at everyone except Charlie, who was already taking down the protective wards around the pen where they kept a group of orphaned Hungarian Horntails.

"Now remember," Charlie began, "just because they're babies, doesn't mean—Ted?"

"Yeah?" Teddy glanced up at his name to see the colour draining from Charlie's face. "What?"

"Lily."

Teddy quickly conjured a mirror and panicked when he looked at his reflection. A thick scar was rapidly growing diagonally from the top of his jaw and down his throat. Eyes wide and hands clenched tightly, he looked up at Charlie once before touching his wand to the mirror in his hand.

"Teddy, don't—"

" _Portus_!"

* * *

Harry and Hermione stormed through the gates of Hogwarts with ease.

They'd been having a perfectly pleasant afternoon at work when the cat Patronus flew through Harry's office and stopped, sitting down on top of a pile of papers that Hermione was looking over to say, "Potter, you're needed at Hogwarts immediately. Lily has been injured."

They rushed through their old familiar stomping ground to find Neville, Luna, and Theo—in addition to the entire Slytherin Quidditch team—standing outside the infirmary. "What happened?" Harry demanded.

Theo and Neville both looked enraged, so Luna stepped forward. "Lily and another girl got into a duel before the match and Lily was hit with a Slicing Hex that—"

"She's fine," Neville quickly assured his friend. "She got to the Hospital Wing in time, the other student has been suspended pending an investigation, but Lily's going to make a full recovery."

Harry leaned against Hermione in relief. "I need to send word to Daphne. She's in Italy visiting the Zabinis with Astoria and Ginny."

"Might want to get word to Andromeda as well," Theo insisted.

Harry blinked. "Why?"

The doors opened and Minerva stepped out with a heavy sigh. "Because, Potter, your godson used an illegal International Portkey to get to Scotland, and then Apparated through Hogwarts security wards. They're broken, for the record. He, however, is inside; magically exhausted."

Shocked at the news, Harry made his way into the hospital wing to find Madam Pomfrey hovering over a bed in the corner, where Teddy was wrapped protectively around his daughter, both with matching—but fading—scars on their necks.

* * *

**2027**

"Cissa."

"Andy."

The sisters sat uncomfortably beside one another.

"Lovely wedding," Narcissa said. "I've always loved Daphne's personal style. I'm sure Lily will make a beautiful bride." The guests were gathered and merely waiting now. Slytherins, Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws. Malfoys and Weasleys. Muggle-borns, half-bloods, creatures, and purebloods all sitting together. At the front of the aisle stood the groom, wearing what looked to be Muggle jeans and a tuxedo coat. His hair was purple to match the wedding colours. His Muggle trainers were some ungodly shade of orange.

"Your grandson is, as always, very . . .  _festive_ ," Narcissa said thoughtfully, choosing her words carefully. "It is his day, of course, but . . . couldn't you have prompted him to be a little bit more . . . appropriate, given the occasion?"

Andromeda turned and smiled at her sister. "Perhaps," she said. "Is that  _Scorpius_ snogging the Potter boy near the cake?"

Narcissa's eyes widened in horror, and she spun in her seat to glare across the room just as the music began to play. Andromeda's soft chuckling could barely be heard as Lily's elder brothers, followed by Scorpius, walked the bridesmaids down the aisle. "You're not funny," Narcissa whispered to her sister.

"Agree to disagree."

When the bride made it to her groom, Harry kissed her cheek and squeezed Teddy's hand.

Teddy reached out and brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheek, where their first soul scar rested. "I'll take care of her," he vowed to his godfather.

Lily snorted. "You've got your work cut out for you."


End file.
